


Into the Redroom

by SecretWorthKeeping



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: #I'msosorryMark, #Oops, #maybeikillsomeone, Betrayal, But only to people I love, Electrocution, GO READ IT, Gen, Go read Welcome to the Game, Hey guys~, I swear, I'm not sure how it got this far, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's in the inspired section of this story here~, Jeez, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-consensual temperature play, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sorry Markimoo, Torture, Water Torture, Whipping, You've been fucking warned, i'm a sadist, lots of swearing, seriously, what have I done?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 56,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8883733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretWorthKeeping/pseuds/SecretWorthKeeping
Summary: Mark Fischbach is taken and tortured in front of the screens of the sadists of America. He is abused and barely escapes with his life. Being there is hard, getting out is harder. Living with the aftermath? Well... Welcome to the Redroom.





	1. Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Welcome to the Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838479) by [horseshoecrab (cicadas)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/horseshoecrab), [Laughing_Fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laughing_Fox/pseuds/Laughing_Fox). 



> Hey, everyone. Thank you so much for falling into the rabbit hole that is my story -- whether by accident or on purpose. This is my first Markiplier fan fiction, and it's also only the like...fourth or fifth fanfic I've done? It's certainly the only one I've intended to finish. So, the themes in this tend to get really dark, and if your not into that, than tread carefully. You can leave anytime you want, I won't be offended. Enjoy!

On Tuesday, March 1st, 2016 a video hit Youtube, Vimeo, and Twitch simultaneously. It was a video of a well-known man with newly-dyed red hair. 

 

Most people thought it was a joke at first, some people didn’t know what to make of it at all. But the ones who understood trauma whether by firsthand experience or otherwise knew the truth. They saw the look of fear on his face, heard the tremor in his voice. 

 

“H-hello everybody,” Mark’s voice was shaky and scared, not at all like the joyful robust voice that lit the internet. It was smaller than anyone had ever heard it. “My name is Mark Fischbach,” Mark was slapped hard by somebody off camera. He sucked in a sharp breath. It took a moment before he was able to speak again. “M-my name is Markiplier and t-today…” he trailed off eyes wide as he stared at something behind the camera. 

 

His whole body was shaking by this point, and his eyes began to fill with tears. “I-I don’t… I can’t—” He was slapped again, this time he lost his balance as he fell from the chair, and a cry spilled from his lips. A figure dressed in complete black with his head hidden conveniently by a mask lifted Mark off the floor and back onto the chair, before stepping back out of sight. Mark’s nose was bleeding and the tears had begun to spill over his face. 

 

“T-today,” his voice was little more than a breathy whisper. He took another breath. “we’re going to do a let’s play, called…” he paused again closing his eyes and bringing his hands through his hair, smearing the blood on his forehead. As he put them down every viewer could see them shaking. It was so bad he had to clench them into fists. He flinched as the other man brought his hand down from off camera, but he only placed it on Mark’s shoulder, almost as if it was a reminder. “It’s called ‘Redroom number 5: Make,” he paused once more, a sob wrenched from his chest. “Make Mark Scream.” his voice was so quiet, and he looked like he would throw up. The look of terror on his face caused viewers’ stomach’s to drop and hearts to squeeze. Nobody thought it was a joke anymore. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday, March 1st, 11:59 AM

L.A. Police Precinct

 

 

The police precinct was alive with activity, cops were moving criminals, filling out paperwork, and milling about normal business. But the normality of the place was short lived by  the voice of a young cop. 

 

“Detective Stevens?” he called, voice laden with worry. “It’s happening again.” Detective Carrie Stevens cursed as she jogged across the room to the computer the cop was stationed at.

 

“Pull it up.” she said, tone allowing no room for argument. The young cop looked around before dubiously pulling up the youtube video. This time it was posted by a ‘Markiplier’. Carrie cursed again. She actually knew the poor bastard. “My son watches him.” The video started with Mark Fischbach sitting in front of the camera. His hair messy, his face pale, and a small cut was on his forehead, lazily seeping blood down the side of his face. He looked all together disheveled. He was shaking all over, but his words stuck out the most. 

 

“Same M.O.” the younger cop muttered, fingers nervously playing with a quarter. Detective James laid a hand on his shoulder. “Using their own words and mannerisms against them.”

 

“We’ll get him this time.” There was a moment of silence as the cop took in the words. He sighed.

 

“Should I start taking the videos down and wait to see when the website pops up?” the cop said, resigned. Something hard went through Carrie’s eyes.

 

“No.” she said, voice steely. The cop gasped at that.

 

“What?!” he coughed out, trying not to make a scene. Not that everybody in the precinct wasn’t already trying figure out who the culprit was for this specific case.

 

“No,” she said again. “this time we need to do something different. We’ve done the same thing all the four times they’ve tortured and murdered someone for profit and fun. Now we’re changing it up. See how they respond.”

 

“But…protocol,” the cop said, fingers drumming on his opposite hand. “We can’t just…”

 

“Screw protocol!” Carrie barked. Everyone was looking at her now, even some of the petty criminals. She took a breath to compose herself. “Protocol has gotten us nowhere,” she said evenly. “so don't you dare touch those videos.” The cop nodded, and continued to watch the victim with the red hair speak, and react to things unseen on the video. Detective James went to see her supervisor, and let him know that protocol was going to be broken. Chief Marster knew how Carrie worked, and had allowed her to do this a few times.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Tuesday, March 1st, 12:05 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark was beginning to hyperventilate as the man behind the camera tucked the flashcards away in his pocket and turned the camera off. The other man took his hand off his shoulder and Mark flinched, closing his eyes tight. He was shaking so bad he thought he would come apart. His world already was. Tears were trailing down his cheeks and somewhere in the back of his mind he was ashamed of it. He didn’t want to move from the chair. Somewhere across the room a girl said “Posted.”

 

Maybe if he didn’t move they would forget about him? Maybe that was too much of a delusion, even for the level of terror and denial Mark was feeling. 

 

Mark opened his eyes as he felt hands on him. His stomach tightened and he swung out. He flailed in the grip, trying to strike out at somebody, it didn’t matter who. Two more men came around him and together they managed to get him into another chair in the dead center of the room. He felt sick as they produced duct tape. One guy held him down by the shoulders while they taped his hands to the arms of the chair. When he looked straight ahead he could see another, bigger camera focused straight on him.

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, struggling to get out of the bonds. “What do you want?”  One of his kidnappers laughed in his ear making him jump. His breathing was ragged, his chest was tight. This was too much for him to take. He’d never been kidnapped before, he’d never been threatened seriously before, he’d never been fucking tortured before. He had been a pretty sheltered kid growing up, and now…this was all too much. 

 

“Are you gonna cry again?” the man asked, breath ghosting across the shell of his ear. Mark forced the tears forming in his eyes back. The man put a hand on his shoulder, thumb moving almost tenderly across the flesh of his exposed throat. Mark went completely still, eyes clenched in disgust. He was fucking terrified. With Mark tied up like this the man could do whatever he wanted with him. stab, shoot, maim, or kill him. He wasn’t ready to die, and he certainly wasn’t ready to be fucking maimed.  “What is it you called yourself? A blubbering baby?” his voice sent a chill down Mark’s spine. The fact that the man had seen his videos made him uncomfortable. Though it was out in the open, it still seemed like an invasion of privacy. 

 

“Alright,” a new booming voice called loudly to the room. Mark winced, shoulders going up in a vain attempt to block his ears. The man took his hand off of Mark to stand at attention. _He’s a military man._ “It’s show time. People want to see some torture, so lets give ‘em some torture! The message board’s been posted, and people are saying they want us to begin slow with this one. Say this one won’t be able to take much.” With every word Mark was feeling more sick. Message board? Torture? They had called this a Redroom. 

 

Mark had heard that term before. It was supposed to be a place on the deep web where people killed and tortured people live. _Jesus_. He hadn’t even thought they were really real.

 

Mark said nothing as they chatted about what to do to him. He couldn’t find it in himself to speak. He wanted to be small and hide. He wanted to be not here. He tried to tune out their words but they bounced around in his skull. Knives, bats, hot pokers, a fucking car battery. He tried to calm his breathing, but it was too much stress. He wondered if this was the start of a panic attack. He’d read that breathing became erratic and strained. 

 

That’s what it felt like for Mark as he sat in the chair. Barely listening to them talk, he struggled with the duct tape, arms pulling uselessly at it. The skin just around the tape was becoming red, and his skin was starting to chafe. He pulled a few more times, before slumping, defeated. His wrists throbbed and he was suddenly very tired. His breathing had gotten more strained and he was so tense it hurt. He looked around at the people around him. There were men scattered here and there, all probably talking about what they were going to do to him still. Thankfully he couldn’t hear anymore conversation. He looked at a man with dark hair and vivid blue eyes. 

 

_Shit._

 

He wasn’t wearing a mask. When had he taken off his mask? He was never leaving here, they were going to kill him. Mark was sure of it now. Why else would they show their faces? They wouldn’t let him leave. Ever. He thought his heart would burst out of his chest, it was beating so fast. Tears were gathering in his eyes again, but he blinked them back. Mortality settled so heavily on him he thought he might break. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t ready. What about his mom? What about Tom? He couldn’t leave them, they wouldn’t even know he was dead. 

 

A cold dread sliced through him. No one would know. Would they even find his body? _Oh god._ He swallowed hard, trying to get past the lump in his throat. Everything was beginning to close in on him. Everything was so fucking _wrong_. Mark tried to deal with the flurry of emotions and thoughts whirring through his head, but everything was beginning to meld together. The only passing thought he could really focus on was the thought that he was about to pass out.

 

He was awoken back to reality by a clap by his ears. He jumped, eyes flying open. When had he closed them?

 

“Welcome to the Redroom.”

 


	2. Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark's friends converge. Mark gets abused a little more. Also his hope is crushed into tiny little pieces...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my new chapter! Mark's a little more abused in this one than the last one...oops. I bring in some of the gang. It'll be hard to incorporate everyone in here, just because there's soon many, and I don't want it to be too confusing or irritating. I'm not sure if I'll add Team Edge, or the Game Grumps yet. I know I mentioned some of them already (I think xD) but I'm still working out the kinks of having EVERYONE. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy it!

Wednesday, March 2nd, 9:00 AM

Athlone, Ireland

 

 

Seán had called Mark’s phone a total of six times. He’d messaged Mark 4, and skyped him ten. Worry was beginning to make him sick. He’d seen the new video posted by his friend twenty minutes ago and he already thought he would lose his mind. 

 

Signe was at her parents’ house, and the stillness of the apartment was making him edgy. He knew, he _knew_ the video wasn’t a joke. He’d seen Mark act, that was not Mark _acting_. He went on to google and searched for L.A. news with the key word Fischbach. The first link title made him want to throw up. 

 

 _27 year-old youtube personality taken by infamous Redroom group —_ with a picture of Mark’s smiling face next to it.

 

 

He couldn’t bring himself to read the article. He spent the next ten minutes finding out who the ‘Redroom' group was. Then he called Signe. They were going to America. 

 

He was already packing by the time Signe got to the apartment. 

 

“Seán? What’s going on? What’s wrong with Mark?” Seán took a deep breath, forcing back the wetness in his eyes. 

 

“Did you ever hear about that group of people in L.A. who would torture people live on the internet? Like a public redroom?” Signe only shook her head, worry creasing her brow.

“No…”

 

“They took him, Si…They took Mark.” Signe could see the fear and anguish on Sean’s face. She reached over and pulled him into a hug, fighting tears of her own. 

 

“What about the police?” she asked softly. Seán shook his head against her. 

 

“I’m scared, Si. What if they can’t get him back?” Signe let out a long breath. 

 

“They will.”

 

“The plane leaves in an hour,” Seán said, suddenly sounding very tired. 

 

The plane ride was exhausting for both of them. Neither of them could sleep, and Sean’s stomach grew tighter every passing hour. He couldn’t stop moving his hands, fingers drumming or twiddling. Signe put her hand over his, squeezing gently. Seán looked out the window, hoping it was an elaborate sick joke that he could punch Mark for later. He couldn’t bring himself to squeeze back. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 10:00 AM

Gothenburg, Sweden

 

 

Felix was growing nervous, foot tapping on the floor of his parents house. Marzia was back in Brighton. He put his head in his hands, heart squeezing painfully. He heard footsteps but didn’t lift his head.

 

“Felix,” his mom said, speaking in Rikssvenska. “Ryan’s on the phone.” Felix nodded, grabbing for the phone without looking. He was too embarrassed to lift his head, eyes wet with tears.

 

“Ryan?” he asked, and his voice cracked.

 

“I told you to call me Cry,” Ryan said playfully, a small chuckle following. Felix couldn’t find it in him to respond. Instead he sniffed, trying to keep the tears at bay. What if Mark was dead? “Felix?” Ryan’s voice had dropped its previous amusement and he sounded worried. “What’s wrong?” 

 

“You haven’t heard?” His accent was thicker than usual, like any time Felix was really upset.

 

“Heard what?” Ryan’s voice seemed on the edge of panic by this point. 

 

“Mark…” Felix couldn’t find the words.

 

“Mark what? Felix what’s going on?” Felix’s gut twisted. 

 

“Mark was kidnapped yesterday.” There was silence on the other end for a few moments. 

 

“Mark was….? By who?” A pause. “Mark Fischbach? Our friend Mark?” Felix nodded, before realizing that Ryan couldn’t see him.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“In LA?” Felix didn’t respond. “Shit.”

 

“I’m gonna call Marzia and we’re gonna get on a plane. I have about ten hours till I get there, I’ll meet you there.”

 

“Yeah…Are we gonna…are we gonna meet at…?” Felix winced.

 

“I think so.” He hung up, feeling more tired than he ever had in his life. He finally lifted his head, handing his phone back to his mother.

 

“Will you go back to college now?” his mother asked, eyes narrowed. Felix was taken aback.

 

“What?” he asked in Rikssvenska, eyes wide. 

 

“This is what happens when you throw your life away, to be a no-good nobody.” Felix felt anger rise in his chest.

 

“Don’t you dare tell me my friends are no-good nobodies. Mark is a good man, and what he does is good.” Mrs. Kjellburg’s face softened.

 

“I just mean you should go back to college.” Felix shook his head. He couldn’t believe she would bring _this_ up again, now of all times. He rose to his full height and glared at her, but there were tears in his eyes.

 

“No, Mom, I will not go back to college. I thought I could come back here when I needed you,”

 

“Need me?” his mom asked, voice strained.

 

“Yes, Mom, I _need_ you! My friend might be _dead_! but I can’t be here for five seconds without hearing about how I’m throwing my life away. Fine! Don’t expect me to come back!” He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 10:30 AM

Florida

 

 

Ryan was having a hard time processing. Mark had been kidnapped by someone? Who? Who would want to take a youtube personality? Not like they could have much to give….

 

Well, there was money, but that was it. If they wanted his money couldn’t they just mug him? Threaten him until he gave them all his accounts and passwords? Ryan didn’t get a lot of information from Felix. Felix had known Mark better, and he hadn’t wanted to pry. He sighed, grabbing his keys. 

 

He knew this was a risk, his face might get out, people might recognize his voice. But this was for Mark. Anonymity didn’t seem to matter anymore. He started his car. Guess he was headed to the airport. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 12:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Tom sat on Mark’s couch, head in his hands while Wade paced in front of him. Bob was in the recording room calling the police. 

 

“Did anyone call Amy?” he said, voice cracking. Wade shook his head, but didn’t slow his  pacing. If anything he sped up. Tom ran his hands through is hair. He can’t believe this happened. Wasn’t he the older brother? Wasn’t he supposed to protect him? He needed to call Amy… He needed to call their mom. _Oh my god_. More tears gathered in his eyes before spilling over his cheeks. What was he going to tell their mom? 

 

Tom was pulled from his thoughts by Bob yelling. 

 

“Tom! Wade!” his voice was frantic and strange. Tom jumped up, heart beating a million miles a minute. He glanced at Wade. Their eyes mirrored each other. Together they ran to the mini recording studio Mark had, Tom leading the way. Bob’s eyes were wide, hands shaking. Tears were in his eyes as he watched the computer screen. Tom felt his stomach plummet. 

 

“What is it?” Wade asked. Tom couldn’t find it in him to speak. He was so afraid he would see Mark’s dead body looking back at him. Tom turned his eyes to the screen, gut clenched. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 12:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark wasn’t dead. Yet. But he did feel like he’d been hit by a truck. They’d taken turns beating him in front of the camera. With the wires hooked up to it, he’d say it was live. He didn’t know how much more he could take, but he had no choice in the matter. They had taken a break, and while it wasn’t for his benefit he was grateful. He was a big guy, but he’d never taken pain all that well. He’d never needed to. Still panting he looked up at the camera, managing a small smile. 

 

“I’ll be okay,” he spoke to the camera. He knew people were watching. People who cared about him, and he didn’t want to scare them anymore than they already were. Blood was trailing down the side of his mouth and his left eye was turning black and blue, but if he could still talk than he had to tell them he was okay. He wondered if Tom was watching, or his mom. He hoped not. He didn’t want them to see him like this. 

 

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” The man with the blue eyes said from behind him. Mark tensed, eyes going wide. He was stupid to think he’d been left alone. The man leaned over him grabbing his chin and squeezing. “Well?” the man prompted, moving to his front. Mark tried to shake his chin out of the harsh grip to no avail. He didn’t know what to say. What answer was the man looking for?

 

“N-nothing,” he said, voice muffled. “I mean…N-no one. I don’t—” The man lashed out, punching Mark harshly in the stomach. Mark cried out, arms flexing against the tape. 

 

“Don’t lie to me!” the man yelled, leaning over him. Spit flew in his face and he shuddered. He wished he could wipe it off. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Mark muttered. “I just—” 

 

“Who were you trying to _talk_ to?!” The man was getting very angry, and Mark’s heart was racing. 

 

“Anyone!” he yelled, as the man posed to strike him again. The man paused. “I just… I don’t know, anyone.” Mark was panting now, eyes wide and face red. The man laughed casually, gesturing to the camera.

 

“You think anyone out there is gonna find you? You think anyone can help you?” Mark’s brow furrowed, but he bit his tongue. “No one is even looking for you right now.” Mark’s terror was running rampant. Could it be that…? No. Tom would be looking for him. Wade, Bob, Jack, Amy, Tyler, Ethan…Everyone would be looking for him. They were his friends. He loved them, and they loved him. But…

 

“What?” The man laughed again. He could see Mark’s walls breaking down. The beating had done a lot more than he expected. The kid was fucking _responsive_.

 

“Not one cop snooping around your house, not one suspicious phone call. Your brother hasn’t even called the police yet.” 

 

As the man left him, Mark put his head down and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon, how was it? Kudos and comments are my drugs. My Narkudos....No? Damn. It'll get a lot heavier in chapters to come, there'll be some electrocution, some waterboarding, some whipping, but that'll be throughout. General angst for the Fischbach's and the slew of people who care for Mark. Thanks everybody for reading, and I will see YOU, in the next chapter. Buh-bye!
> 
> Songs I listened to:  
> Devil Within -- Digital Daggers  
> Shattered -- Trading Yesterday  
> Phantoms In the Sky -- Emptyself


	3. Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's going to Mark's house, Wade and Tom are paranoid, and Mark takes a huge risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who is reading my story, even if you not commenting or leaving kudos, the fact that you like it means a lot to me. Thanks guys.
> 
> Also wanted to say, that yes, it is confirmed that in the next chapter they will see the livestream. Um, names are gonna get confusing and irritating for a while but bear with me, it'll even itself out eventually. Enjoy!

Wednesday March 2nd, 8:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Felix was finding that he really didn’t like airplanes. The flight was stressful, exhausting, and down right painful. Marzia had accidentally gotten a seat away from Felix, and he had to sit next to some chick who kept hitting on him. He generally felt nauseous. Marzia wouldn’t let him hold her hand, and his wouldn’t stop shaking. He chased down a cab for them, pulling out the small amount of american dollars he had. He wouldn’t have any left, but he didn’t really think either of them could deal with a bus full of people. 

 

He gave the man Mark’s address and then leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. He wondered if this still would’ve happened if he’d come to America like he planned to do a collaboration with Mark and his friends. 

 

Felix looked up as he felt Marzia’s hand over his. He smiled at her, sad but grateful and bright. Marzia ran her other hand through his hair. 

 

“Are you okay, Felix?” she asked him. He shook his head, brought her hand up to his lips to kiss. He didn’t know. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. He was so glad he had her, and he told her so. She calmed him. Kept him sane.

 

“I love you,” Felix muttered, hand stroking her face.

 

“I love you, too,” she whispered against his lips as they kissed. 

 

“Don’t ever leave me,” his voice was below a whisper. She nodded against his chest. 

 

“Never.”

 

“If the police don’t, we’ll find him.” Marzia didn’t argue. 

 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 8:30 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán had been standing outside of Mark’s door, knees shaking, for ten minutes, when suddenly he was pitched sideways. The weight of another person knocked the breath out of him, and the bushes scratched against his face. 

 

“What the fuck?” he yelled loudly in his Irish accent, shoving at the person’s chest with one hand, and grabbing for his hat with the other. 

 

“Ja— I mean Seán?” Wade’s voice was higher than normal. 

 

“Why the hell are you tackling me?” Seán asked, standing with Wade’s help. “And Jack’s fine.” Wade nodded, hands in his pockets.  

 

“Tom saw you from a window and thought you were one of the guys that took Mark.” Seán sobered, running a hand through his hair. 

 

“Oh,” he said as he picked out a branch, and replacing his hat. “Shit,” Wade suddenly looked uncomfortable. 

 

“I think… I think there’s something you should see.” 

 

“What is it?” Seán felt a nasty wave of nausea ripple through him. His knees were weak and tears were building in his throat. _Mark’s dead. He’s going to show me Mark’s dead body._

 

“I think we should wait until everyone gets here.” 

 

“Everyone?” his voice was thick. Wade nodded. 

 

“Felix called, him and Marzia are on their way. They landed a half hour ago, they’re on their way. Is Signe with you?” 

 

“Yeah, she went to check into a hotel.”  There was a moment of silence between them, before they walked into Mark’s house. The first thing Seán noticed was the silence. There always seemed to be noise here. Whenever he’d visited Mark was always talking, singing, humming, snapping, tapping, making nonsensical noises. 

 

There was always noise. Dog barking, yapping, paws clacking. Even when Mark was sleeping he would snore. Seán could always hear him from the guest room. Now even the outside noises seemed to halt, as if mourning his absence. The second thing Seán noticed was that furniture had been knocked over in the living room. The couch was pushed against the wall, the side table was on its back, and a lamp had been smashed. The third, probably, the worst of all, was the absence of animals. 

 

“Where’s Chica?” Seán asked apprehensively. Wade shook his head. They all seemed to be doing that a lot lately, words too hard to speak.

 

“We don’t know.” Wade sounded miserable. _Jesus fuck, they took the dog?_

 

“Do you think…?” 

 

“We don’t know.” Wade said a little too quickly. Seán nodded. 

 

“Sorry,” he’d forgotten how much time Wade and Bob had spent with Chica.

 

“It— It’s okay. Ryan and Matt should be here soon, so should Felix and Marzia. Some others,” Seán didn’t say anything. He was too busy thinking about the fear and hurt rising in him. He couldn’t believe someone would do this to Mark. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 10:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

The beatings had stopped an hour ago, but Mark was not relieved. He was terrified. They had set up extension cords along the floor, and a table just ten feet from him. _The car battery,_ his mind supplied, and he couldn’t calm his breathing. They were going to fucking electrocute him. _Fuck!_  

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a screw gun. Eyebrows furrowed, he turned to look at the sound. A man to his right held a power drill. Apprehension coiled in his chest. 

 

“What are you doing with that?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably. The man smiled, but Mark’s attention was turned to the man with the blue eyes. That certainly wasn’t a car battery. 

“Do you know sign language?” the man asked.

 

“What?” Mark spluttered, a small smile tugging on his lips. None of this was funny, but that question was so out of place, so absurd. It pulled a forced laugh from his lips.

 

“Usually we ask before we start to drill into the ears. We like to know if we can still communicate effectively.” Mark’s gut twisted and he began to sweat. 

 

“Wait…Wha—? You—” Mark couldn’t find the words he needed to beg. “Wait,” he ended lamely. He pulled on the tape, whole body struggling as he twisted. He had to escape. The man with the blue eyes laughed at his attempts. 

 

“Keep it up,” he said. “it’s good for views.” Mark didn't know what to do. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. _Too much_. The man with the blue eyes laughed again, and the sound struck his eardrums with a sickening intensity. _Too much._ The sound of the drill was background noise, but still so clear. The drill was so close to his face. 

 

Mark looked down, and realized his feet were free. They’d never tied his feet down. Mark stood on them, not really thinking about the consequences. He had to try to escape. The man with the drill took a step back, and the man with the blue eyes looked angry. Before he could move Mark jumped in the air, pushing his body backwards. 

 

The chair landed on the floor with a loud crash, wood flying everywhere. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo, that was my third chapter... Good? Bad? So-so? 
> 
> Anyway...
> 
> Songs:
> 
> Shattered - Trading Yesterday
> 
> Smile - Mikky Ekko (THIS SONG IS SO GOOD YOU GUYS!!!!)


	4. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang finally sees what's been happening to Mark. Mark is about to reach his breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a little dark guys. There's the death of an animal in here, if you can't stomach that I would skip the last perspective. There's also a little gore and detailed description of whipping. If this is something you can not handle, or something that triggers you, I would strongly advise you to skip this one.

Wednesday March 2nd, 10:02 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

It was with triumph that Mark realized his plan worked, and he broke the chair. That was great. It was with agony and terror that he realized he had knocked the breath out of himself, and his legs did not want to work. He could barely move. Everything hurt. He groaned, flipping onto his stomach. He saw feet in front of him. He had to get up, he had to run. His legs still wouldn’t move. _Shit!_ Someone hauled him up by the shoulders, and tears stung his eyes as his back spasmed. 

 

Maybe that was an awful idea. It wasn’t like he was in a Bond movie. 

 

The man with the blue eyes was in Mark’s face, voice too loud for his ringing ears. 

 

“What did you think you were gonna do, huh?” he asked, grabbing the side of his head with his hands. “Did you think you could escape? Get the best of us? Huh?” he squeezed as he spoke, and Mark’s skull throbbed. Mark’s eyes were wide, as the man yelled at him. He looked so angry. The man let go suddenly, taking a step back.

 

“Please,” Mark whispered, voice hoarse from the fall. He stumbled without any support, and two men held him up from behind. “let me go,” The man frowned at him, honest contemplation on his face. Mark didn’t dare to hope.

 

“You know,” he started, voice marginally more calm. “we have to punish you now.” He said the words so casually, Mark wasn’t sure he caught them. He was silent, staring at the man with wide eyes. _What the hell does that mean?_ The man looked him up and down for a moment before he cast a meaningful look at the men holding him, turned on his heel, and left the room. 

 

Mark was shoved roughly to the floor. His knees hit the cold concrete and he winced. His head wouldn’t stop pounding, and neither would his heart. He tried to turn around, but someone forced his head back.

 

“Forward,” the man simply said. His voice was rough, and it sent a chill through Mark. It was the military guy from earlier. It made Mark sad, almost as much as it scared him. His dad must be turning in his grave. 

 

Mark’s attention was pulled back by the sound of another man’s voice. Presumably the one who had held him up.

 

“Give it to me, I want to have the first one.” The anticipation was making Mark’s fear grow. He felt frozen. He wanted to turn but he didn’t, couldn’t. For a moment, there was silence. The breath of three people, and Mark’s blood roaring in his ears. He held his breath as he waited. 

 

Mark soon found out that the anticipation was better 

 

“ _Fuck!_ ”. The sudden sharp stinging gave way to a burn, and he flinched. The crack reached his ears after the fact. He bit his lip, tears forming in his eyes. The whip came down again, and this time Mark grimaced, a small strangled noise coming out of him. Before the whip could be brought down again, Mark pushed his palms into the floor, beginning to crawl forward. ‘Military Man’ chuckled grabbing him by the ankles and pulling him back on his stomach. He groaned, blunt fingernails scrabbling along the dirty floor. 

 

‘Military Man’ tied his wrists with tape, manhandling him back to his knees. The whip came down again, and again, without pause this time. At first, Mark could handle it pretty well, but then the speed picked up, and hit harder and harder. The pain continued to get worse. Blood began to come up, but the two men didn’t stop. 

 

Mark began to scream every time the whip came down. He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. The pain was too much. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think. _Make it fucking stop!_

 

“ _Stop_!” he sobbed as the whip cracked against his skin again. “ _Please, god,_ ** _stop_**!” His fists and eyes were clenched tight. Eventually his shirt had ripped under the pressure, pieces of it hanging limply by his sides. Tears were running down his face, but he wasn’t aware of it. Wasn’t aware of anything other than the pain.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 10:30 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie sighed, running a hand over her face. She was tired, more so now than she had ever been working this case. Alex had asked if ‘Markiplier’ was going to die, and it was becoming more than she could handle. Not that she would ever mention that. 

 

She crumpled a piece of paper she had been jotting thoughts onto. All this time and still she hadn’t caught them. Was she a bad cop? The door opened to her bedroom, and she looked up from her paperwork. The stress was becoming so much.

 

“It’s affecting Alex,” she whispered, eyes stinging. She always worked so hard to keep work from home. From Alex.

 

“He’ll be okay,” her husband, James said, rubbing her back reassuringly. She leaned back against his chest, sighing softly. It was times like these she was extremely grateful she’d married him. He had been such a goof when they were dating, not the marrying type. But she had been wrong. He was perfect.

 

“I wish I could say the same thing about the victim. They haven’t put their website up yet, and that worries me. They have a lifestream on twitch, and videos on youtube. I wonder if their not posting their website because they don’t need to anymore or because their screwing with me.” James began to rub her back, trying to soothe her. “Thank you,” she sighed. “You don’t know how much I needed that.” James leaned down to kiss her cheek. 

 

“Do you want me to go check on him? Make sure he’s not on youtube?” Carrie nodded, humming. 

 

“Yes please,” James kissed her again before leaving. 

 

As she got ready for bed, Carrie wondered what she would do without him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Wednesday March 2nd, 11:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

 

Mark’s gaming room was crowded. Ryan Magee, Matt, Felix, Marzia, Wade, Bob, Ken, Seán, Signe, Ryan, Tyler, Matthias, Ethan, Danny, Arin, and Tom all crowded together in front of the computer. It was squished but that didn’t seem to matter. Everything was dead silent. Wade was the first to speak. 

 

“We found this on Mark’s old twitch channel,” he said, voice wavering. “It’s uh…It’s really bad…but,” he paused, composing himself. “But Mark’s alive.” Clicking on the the link, Wade blinked tears from his eyes. He couldn’t do this now. He had to be strong for Tom. It barely needed to load before they were met with the most heartbreaking thing any of them had seen. 

 

Mark was on his knees, his head was down, and there were two men with blurred faces behind him. Mark’s shirt hung in bloodied tatters on each side of him, and awful sobs and screams were being wrenched from him. One of the men was beating Mark with a whip. They could tell Mark was trying to say words, but the ability had left him long ago. 

 

Wade couldn’t take his eyes off the screen, but there was a nausea building up and he knew he might throw up soon. 

 

Ethan covered his eyes, tears running down his face. He couldn’t look at what they were doing to him. 

 

Arin punched the wall behind him, rage flaring in his chest, Mark’s screams sounding in his ears. 

 

Ryan M. felt the sobs in his chest. He didn’t know if they were his or Mark’s. 

 

Matt covered his ears and closed his eyes, accidentally elbowing Ryan M. 

 

Ken had his face hidden in his hands, quiet sobs shaking his chest as he listened to Mark's cries.

 

Marzia was holding onto Felix as if her legs were about to give out, and Felix had silent tears running down his face. He looked up at the ceiling unable to watch as Mark took the beating. 

 

Bob walked out without a word, chest tight. 

 

Seán was outright sobbing, holding onto Signe who was crying as well. 

 

Ryan had a hand covering his mouth, tears forming in his eyes. He flinched every time Mark cried out. 

 

Tyler had his arms crossed, muscles strained, eyes closed. He was crying too. 

 

Matthias had left too, unable to take hearing it. 

 

Danny watched in horror, unable to pull his eyes away. This was too much for all of them. 

 

Tom was crying, whole body shaking with it. His knees were weak, and his arms were strained at his sides, hands in tight fists. Ryan reached out to turn the lifestream off, but Tom stopped him.

 

“Don’t,” he growled, voice thick with grief.

 

“Tom,” Ryan said, trying to keep calm. “You don’t need to watch this,” Tom shook his head, a sob wrenched from his chest. “Tom,” Ryan said again, hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It won’t help him for you to see him like this.” 

 

“I’m supposed to protect him,” Tom cried, collapsing in Mark’s chair. “He’s my little brother,” Ryan nodded, and turned the computer off. 

 

“I know, Tom, I know,” No one else had the heart to speak.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 2nd, 11:30 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

The men had finally stopped beating him, and Mark lay in a blood mess on the floor. His hands were tucked underneath his belly. Mark couldn’t feel his wrists anymore, but he didn’t notice. The only thing he felt was the awful throbbing burning pain in his back. He was sobbing, whole body quivering and convulsing. He didn’t know how long they had beat him for, but he was glad it was over. He would take anything other than that again. Anything.

 

Mark didn’t know how long he was laying there, recovering when the man with the blue eyes came back. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours. Mark didn’t want to open his eyes, but he could tell from the voice it was the man. But there was something else…? Another sound. Like clacking. Mark opened his eyes, and came face to face with a dog. Though his vision was still blurry, Mark could tell who it was. Would know that dog anywhere.

 

“Ch-chica?” his voice was hoarse and small. Weak. The tears almost seemed to come faster now. “N-no,” he tried to raise his voice but his throat was too raw. 

 

“What?” the man with the blue eyes asked. “You don’t think I’m so heartless as to meaninglessly kill a defenseless animal, do you?” That’s exactly what Mark thought. 

 

“Leave my dog alone,” Mark croaked, attempting to get up. He couldn’t and the movement made the pain in his back flare. He whimpered, stilling. 

 

“Listen carefully, Mark,” the man with the blue eyes said, using his name for the first time. It unnerved him. “My friend here is going to whip you five more times,” Mark let out a terrified sob, trying to move again.

 

“No!” he yelled. ‘Military Man’ hauled him back to his knees and Mark screamed as the man touched his back. He could feel the man’s hand slip, and he realized how much he had bled. “Please don’t,” he whimpered.

 

“Listen to me, Mark,” the man with the blue eyes said again. “For every stroke, you are not allowed to make a sound. I’ll give you three chances, and if you lose them, I’ll shoot Chica in the head,” 

 

“No,” he begged. “Wait, don’t!” The man brought the whip down on Mark’s abused back, and Mark bit his tongue so hard blood began to fill his mouth. He made a small barely audible sound in the back of his throat, but the man with the blue eyes didn’t comment. He was panting hard, sweat soaking his hair and clothes. The whip came down again, and Mark clenched his teeth, a muffled scream resounding in his closed mouth.

 

“That’s strike one, Mark,” the man with the blue eyes said, and Mark shook his head sobbing. _Not Chica, please, not Chica._ The man brought the whip down again, and this time it was harder. A scream, unmuffled broke from his chest. “Strike two, Mark.” Mark couldn’t, he couldn’t hold out, and he knew it. This time when the whip came down Mark sucked in a breath and bit his lip, tearing through it. No sound. Mark let out the breath, slumping. It was the last one that Mark was not expecting. The man brought the whip back over his head, and hit as hard as he could. Mark let out a loud sob, trying to get his breath back. “Strike three,” the gunshot resounded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cried writing this. It was a lot to do. I'm so sorry Chica! Forgive me... ;~;


	5. Token

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is left to cold thoughts, Seán wants to be there for his friend, and Carrie tries to put everything together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include:  
> mentions of sexual assault  
> mentions of violence  
> extreme description of torture and death.  
> Lots of Jacksepticeye feels  
> temperature torture  
> mentions of Chica's death....Also Chica's dead body (sorry)  
> This one gives some good insight on what the murders and kidnappings looked like before though, so some good plot to this one. Also, I don't know where the people mentioned in this chapter live, I am simply creating homes for them to ft my story. None of them have actually been murdered, though they do all live in LA

Wednesday March 2nd, 11:50 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

“ _Chica_?” Mark’s voice was barely a whisper. There was a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t go away. His face was wet with sweat and tears, his hair plastered to his forehead. He stood on shaking feet, the movement jarring every gash in his back. He whimpered through it, walking forward with unsteady steps until he reached his golden retriever. Her eyes were closed, nose resting in her paws. If not for the hole on her head it would almost be like she was asleep. Nobody stopped him as he knelt by her head, soaking the knees of his jeans in her blood. He lifted her head with his hands, still tied together by tape, and laid it gently in his lap. He stroked her head, sobbing softly. Chica had become part of his family. She had been his pet, his roommate, his friend. Times when he’d been down, Chica would lay in his lap and nudge his face until he smiled. 

 

Now she was gone.

 

The man with the blue eyes stood above Mark and his dead dog, smiling down at them. He was much more interesting than any other subject he’d had before. He checked his phone, looking at the comments. The viewers were loving it. He might have to keep this one a little longer than the rest. It was risky, but well worth the money. He was going to start taking suggestions soon. But for now he had other things to do.

 

Mark’s quiet mourning was interrupted by the man with the blue eyes. He screamed as he was hauled up by the shoulder, back raw from the whip. He was forced roughly into another chair, this one cold and only slightly soothing on his back; metal. Immediately Mark felt safer without his back exposed, but still he struggled as the man with the blue eyes cut through the tape on his wrists only to reattach them to the arms of the chair. 

 

Mark was weak and the fight was futile. He was tired, he just wanted to go home, he just wanted to sleep. Exhaustion got the better of him, but as he closed his eyes a wave of freezing cold water hit him. His eyes flew open, blinking the water away. He gasped, muscles tensing and un-tensing. The agony in his back awoke, tearing through his nerve endings. He groaned through clenched teeth, jaw set.

 

The water had been cold, and Mark began to shiver, each ripple startling the wounds in his back. As he shivered he watched the man with the blue eyes walk out the door. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday March 3rd, 4:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie was beginning to lose her mind. It had climaxed for four years, but she knew, with burning intensity that if she didn’t solve it now, she wouldn’t ever. It was settling on her shoulders and dragging her into a darkness she hadn’t known existed in herself. The lives of four people weighed on her heart, but this one felt different. She had to save him. Perhaps it was because of her son breathing down her neck, or maybe it was that the man was taking much worse than in the past. She didn’t know. All she knew was she had to stop these people. Take them down, before they could wreck anymore lives. 

 

She had decided earlier - when she had been unable to fall asleep again — to watch the livestream, and loaded it from the beginning. It started with Mr. Fischbach being taped to a wooden chair. It progressed from there to a beating. At some point they were going to drill in his ears, but he flipped the chair. For that he was whipped severely. Carrie couldn’t imagine what that must’ve felt like. From there she stopped watching. The footage had made her nauseous and angry. They had some good technicians on their team that allowed them to mask any voice or face except for the victim’s. Even the FBI’s top hackers couldn’t get into their servers and codes. They had left the case alone for most of the four years, but Carrie felt that soon they would be breathing down her neck again. She hated that.

 

Damn feds.  

 

She curled her legs up under her, eyes glancing over the files again. There must have been some connection other than fame. Sade Adu, Lucie Arnaz, Ryan Braun, Mark Fischbach, and Jared Leto. Sade Adu had been a singer in L.A.. She had been taken from her home on March 1st, 2012 at ten o’clock in the morning. She had been tortured based off of comments on the website they posted, and when they were done with her on April 1st, she was brutally murdered and left for Carrie to find. Lucie Arnaz had been an actress in L.A.. She had also been abducted from her home, this time on March 1st, 2013. Tortured for a month and then brutally disposed of, same as Ms. Adu. Ryan Braun had been a baseball player in L.A.. He had been abducted from his home as well on March 1st, 2014. 

 

He was the first deviation in their M.O.. He had been a victim of brutal torture, sexual assault and murder. The first victim with sexual assault, sure, but it was the murder that stood out the most. Each body had been placed somewhere off a backroad with no evidence left behind, but no care for placement either. Mr. Braun’s body had been meticulously placed carefully in the tree of an officer assigned to the case. His eyeballs had been replaced with glass and glued to his hands, which were positioned to face the officer’s house. The message was clear.

 

They were watching, and there wasn’t much they couldn’t do.

 

But the last one. Jared Leto. It was the most brutal and vicious. Each victim was tortured, and one was sexually assaulted, but it grew from there. Jared Leto had been found without fingernails, toenails, or hair. His eyelids had been cut off preceding death. His wrists were raw from a set of handcuffs. 

 

That wasn’t the worst of it.

 

Hickeys had been left anywhere where there was untainted skin. His lips had been bruised and swollen. Semen had been found inside his mouth and throat. But the worst of all was the condition his lower regions were in. His penis had shown signs of clear use and molestation, and there were shallow cuts on the shaft. In addition to these things there were signs of electrocution, burning, beatings, strangulation, asphyxiation, and simulated drowning. Carrie knew there was more, but didn’t want to know it all. 

 

Carrie had been advised to not watch the footage, and she hadn’t. The reports from the medical examiner were enough. Even as a detective of seven years, she couldn’t stomach that much. Usually she’d see everything spread out. A rape here, a murder there, a theft, or a sexual assault. But all this? To one person in just a short month? It was hard to be assigned to a case that you couldn’t solve, it was even harder when overtime you didn’t save someone, didn’t catch the bad guy, a weight settled on you chest and wouldn’t let go. 

Sometimes Carrie struggled to cope with work.

 

Her thoughts were drawn back to the present by a soft hand on her bare shoulder. 

 

James was how she coped. She looked down at her husbands semi-sleeping form. His eyes were squinting in the small lamp light by there bed. His hair was ruffled from sleep, and he was smiling up at her. He was still as dazzling as when they were married five years ago. She smiled down at him, folding her hand over his. 

 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” she whispered, caressing his hand with her thumb. 

 

“It’s okay,” he grumbled lowly, still half asleep. 

 

“I was trying to find any connection between the victims,” She looked out of the window  across from their bed. Sometimes she was afraid one of the victims would appear there, eyes trained on her. _Why haven’t you found my killer?!_ They would scream. _Why haven’t you found me?!_ Sometimes they would visit her in her sleep. 

 

“Fame?” James asked, sitting up, and wiping the sleep from his eyes. Carrie shook her head. 

 

“Too obvious,” she murmured, lost in her thoughts again. James kissed her along the neck to bring her back to him. 

 

“Don’t do that,” he whispered against her ear. “Stay here with me, Care, it’s alright.” She leaned her head on his chest, and they laid down together.

 

“I need to find him, James.” she said, voice hoarse.

 

“I know,” James said, petting her hair. “and you will. If there’s anyone in the world who can solve this, it’s you.” As they drifted off to sleep, Carrie smiled. There would be no nightmares tonight, and once again, there was hope. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday March 3rd, 7:30 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán’s eyes were red and itchy with deep bags under them. He had watched as slowly everyone had fallen asleep. They were all camping out at the hotel, separated between his and Signe’s room and Felix and Marzia’s room. Signe had fallen asleep next to him on the bed, but Seán just could not. Wade, Tyler, Ken, Aaron (who had joined up with them later last night), Matt, and Ethan were spread along the floor with various blankets and pillows they had gotten from the front counter. Tom was sleeping on the bed, tossing and turning, sometimes whimpering in his sleep. The rest were in Marzia and Felix’s room. 

 

Seán tiptoed past everyone, careful not to step on them or wake them up. He crept into the bathroom, closing the door quietly and locking it. He slipped his phone out of his pocket, navigating to Mark’s old twitch channel. He took a deep breath, tears already stinging his eyes, and tapped on the latest livestream.

 

Mark was taped to a metal chair this time, his back not visible to the camera, though Seán knew it must have looked bad. His hair was dripping, and he was clearly sopping wet. Shivers were wracking his body, and his teeth were chattering. It must have been freezing. Seán let the tears pass over his cheeks as he watched his best friend shiver. He was blinking lazily, and seemed sluggish. 

 

The moment he closed his eyes, a man with a blurry face splashed a bucket of water on him. Seán’s heart squeezed as Mark began to shake harder, gasping and squirming. He hadn’t realized he was making noise until there was a soft knock on the door. He pressed the sleep button on his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. He wiped at his face opening the door. 

 

Aaron was looking at him with deep understanding. Seán didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to pretend he wasn’t watching their friend freeze to death without being able to do anything to help. 

 

“He’s going to be okay,” Aaron said, British timbre in a low whisper. 

 

“How do you know? Did you even read the reports? Watch the news? These people kill their victims,” Seán was trying so hard not to raise his voice. He had started crying again, small hiccuping whimpers falling from his lips. “He’s gonna die, Aaron,” he whispered feeling weak. “Mark’s gonna die.” 

 

“Mark is not gonna die, Jack,” Aaron said in a low voice. “The police will find him.”

 

“They didn’t find the others,” Seán’s voice was cracking. 

 

“Jack,” Aaron sighed. “you need to stop doing this to yourself.”  A pause. “You’ve been watching the feed haven’t you?” Jack looked down.

 

“If I stopped I would be abandoning him.” 

 

“Jack that’s not—”

 

“We can’t abandon him, Aaron.” Aaron sighed. He didn’t think Seán was acting like a child, but at the same time it was frustrating.

 

“You should get some sleep, Seán, before you wake everyone up.” Seán nodded, heading back to his bed to cuddle with Signe. He knew sleep wouldn’t come, but if he watched Mark any more, he would lose it. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday March 3rd, 7:40 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie took in the scene before her once more, hand grazing over tired eyes. Same as the last four. Some tossed furniture, and no other evidence. She wasn’t paid nearly enough for this. She bit back a yawn, and kept pawing through broken glass with gloved fingers. She knew there weren’t any fingerprints, but just in case…

 

No, the bastards were too smart for this shit. She growled low in her throat, rising from her crouch. 

 

“Dammit,” she muttered. The younger cop who’d first found the video — Leo — turned to her.

 

“You alright, Stevens?” he asked, voice concerned. Carrie shook her head.

 

“Are we doing this for nothing?” The cop smiled dully at her. 

 

“We’ll find something this time, I know it!” His optimism made her stomach turn. When Mr. Fischbach died the kid would be crushed. Carrie knew from experience. Optimism in high doses only hurts you in the end. She was about to say something about it to Leo, when another cop came bounding in, a little older, but much more energy than Carrie could muster. 

 

“CSI found something,” he panted out of breath. His eyes were wide like he still couldn’t believe it. Carrie felt her heart lift, eyes wide open, suddenly wide alert. Though she wanted to run like Alex on Christmas, instead she walked calmly to the CSI guys.

 

“What do you have, Jack?” Carrie asked her favorite crime scene technician. Despite her calm exterior the urgency was audible in her voice. Visible in her eyes.

 

“We got hair, Carrie.” A smile broke out on both there faces. 

 

“You sure it doesn’t belong to the victim?” she asked, just to be sure. 

 

“Hair’s not red, Care,” he said. Carrie clapped him on the back, ecstatic. 

 

“Good job, Jack,” she paused before she left. “I want those results back as soon as possible.” Jack nodded as Carrie was walking away. 

 

She took a deep breath. She would catch those bastards. Finally after four years, she would take them down. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this story guys. Sorry my posting schedule is irregular. That may or may not change over time. As of now I do not know how long the story will be or how many chapters, but what I do know, is that it will be LONG. Special thanks to Rickster for sticking with this story from chapter one. I know I'm only in chapter five, but this is crazy cool. Thanks Rickster, and good luck on that account xD.


	6. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark gets the cold shoulder. Amy's disposition is revealed. Everyone else tries to deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who has gotten this far! I'm very thankful to have your support, it's so awesome! Also, warnings for this chapter are pretty toned down. General torture stuff, mentions of Chica's death, kidnapping (*gasp* Again?), and total creepiness from the ringmaster and his puppets.

Friday March 4th, 12:00 AM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark knew that he was going to die. He knew that they were never planning on letting him go in the first place. He knew that time was running out. But the thing that he knew the most was that the cold was absolutely biting. The metal chair he was in was unforgiving, and heat had not settled over him in god knows how long. He was shivering violently, muscles aching. His hair was plastered to his face, and his eyes were lidded. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d slept, but he knew it was a long time. He hadn’t slept since he’d been taken, and really he would give anything for a chance to sleep. 

 

As his eyes slipped closed water sloshed against his skin. Just then the air conditioner kicked on, loud, causing Mark to jump. He groaned, shivering harder. His teeth were chattering and he couldn’t feel his toes, as they were stuck in a pool of cold water inside his shoes. The only plus side was that he could no longer feel his back, but he was worried it was infected.

 

The silence, broken only by Mark’s teeth and breath, was crushing for him. He was a social creature, he needed interaction. There was a ringing in his ears that had everything to do with the soul-grinding silence. Finally, he couldn’t remain quiet. 

 

“What time is it?” he asked the man with the buckets of water, eyes purposefully glossing over Chica’s body. If he looked he would never look away. He’d learned that.

 

His voice was raspy and small. The man said nothing. “What time is it?” Mark croaked again, voice slowly coming back. Still the man said nothing. Suddenly the weight of the situation was on Mark, crushing, destroying. They were _torturing_ him, they were probably going to _kill_ him. He wanted to know what time it was. How long was he there? How long had it been since he'd seen his brother? His mother? His stepmother? How long had it been since he’d seen Amy? The thought made his chest burn. 

 

Anger flared up in him. They took him away from his fucking family. “Hey!” Mark yelled. “I asked you what time it was, asshole!” The man responded with a punch to his stomach. Mark doubled, coughing, but the man was not appeased. Gripping Mark by the hair in one hand, he lifted him back up and punched him again, this time in the face. This punch was much harder than the last, and there was an audible crunch as Mark’s nose broke. He yelled out, his head dropping to protect himself. He kept his head down, afraid to look the man in the eye. He regretted the insult. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 4th, 2:00 PM

L.A. Police Precinct

 

 

Aaron was beginning to lose his cool. He’d seen some of the livestream, despite the agreement that no one would watch (especially Tom), so as not to torture themselves, and to give Mark some privacy. He’d seen Mark’s house; police tape everywhere. It was a crime scene. Mark’s house was a _crime scene_. 

 

Mark was a victim in a crime. 

 

The implications were really hitting him now. Mark was being hurt. Mark could _die_. He was sitting with Seán, Wade, Bob, Tyler, and Ryan M., waiting to be questioned. Tom was in a private office with the detective working the case. The rest were back at the hotel. 

 

Aaron hoped they could get the information they needed to find Mark. He wanted them to catch the people who were doing this, he did. But what he wanted the most was to find Mark, safe and sound. If they found him somewhere alive, it didn’t matter to him if the kidnappers ran to Mexico. He just wanted Mark to be okay. They all did. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 4th, 4:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Amy was cold. She shifted, half asleep, hands groping for blankets that weren’t there. She shifted again, this time moving her hand down her body to find them. No blankets. She sighed, eyes still closed and curled in on herself. 

 

Amy was sore. She groaned, turning onto her back and rubbing her shoulder. Mind numb, not processing fully yet, she turned onto her other side, tucking her hand under her head as a pillow. She felt the cold concrete under her hand.

 

Amy was afraid, heart beating too fast, memory failing her. Her thoughts buzzed, her head throbbed. The concrete pushed against her shoulder. Amy opened her eyes.

 

Where was she?

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 4th, 4:30 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Alex gripped the edge of the toilet, body trembling as he threw up what remained of his lunch. He knew his mom had told him to stay off social media for once, but he’d wanted to see if Markiplier was okay, if he was alive. His youtube hero was alive. He was not okay. Alex spit into the toilet before flushing. 

 

Feeling shaky and nauseous, he stumbled to the sink to brush his teeth. Both his parents were at work, and the house was quiet and still. He wished he wasn’t alone. He needed them.

 

He climbed into his bed and began crying. He wanted Markiplier to be okay, he didn't want those men to do those awful things to him. Markiplier hadn’t done anything wrong. Alex cried himself into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed that his mom was beating Markiplier up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 4th, 5:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark was broken out of his trance by the sound of footsteps. He glanced up quickly, heart rate picking up from its dull pace. He was still freezing, and though he tried, he could not hide the shaking. The man with the blue eyes was standing in front of Mark, just next to the camera, where a little computer sat on a small table.

 

 _Has that always been there?_ Mark couldn’t remember, brain fuzzy from the cold. His teeth clacked together, and he gazed at the man in defiance. The man had a smile on his face, cold eyes narrowed at him. A message passed between them. Mark would not bend to the man. But the man would anything in his power to break Mark. 

 

The moment passed and the man with the blue eyes turned to the computer. He scrolled through something on the computer that Mark couldn’t make out, before a sadistic smile spread on his face. Mark didn’t like the look of that.

 

“Well,” he said, excitement clear. Mark shifted in the chair, suddenly nervous. “It appears that the suggestions have started!” Mark ’s eyes scrunched in confusion. He wanted to ask, but didn’t. It had gotten him nowhere last time. The man explained anyway. “We’ve opened a comment section, so people may pose suggestions. We’ve done it every episode.” Mark began to panic. Not only was the whole world watching him get tortured, some people were helping. People he could have met on the street. People he could have talked to. People who he might’ve known personally. He had no idea who could be on the other side of the screen, laughing at his pain. More terrifying than that, though. Mark knew people could get creative.

 

His arms pulled subconsciously at the tape, and his eyes were wide staring at the man. The man seemed please with his attention.

 

“Now,” he said, tone back to business. “the first suggestion I received was a good one, and I believe it would be a good start to this.” Mark didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all, but he had no way to leave, no way to escape. He was stuck. The man walked behind him, and Mark panicked, back twitching in recollection. He closed his eyes, hiding himself from his own panic. The man walked back around, but Mark refused to look at him, eyes firmly remaining closed.

 

“Mark,” the man tsked, and Mark shuddered. He only used his name to talk down on him. “It won’t bother me if your not looking anyway, it won’t stop what’s coming.” The words sent a chill down his spine, but still he didn’t open his eyes. Not until he felt something sticky on his arm, like tape. Finally he opened his eyes to get a peak, staring down at the electrode on his skin. His eyes widened.

 

“There now,” the man said, taunting. “isn’t the known much better than the unknown?” Mark swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath through the nose. _It can’t be much worse than getting whipped or frozen, right?_ The thought did nothing to quell the panic rising inside him. It grew to a crescendo, until Mark was so tense he couldn’t move.

 

“Why?” he gritted out, throat raw from unshed tears. It was so _unfair_! “Why me?” The man with the blue eyes laughed, making Mark flinch. 

 

“You know,” the man mused, scrutinizing Mark with a look that made him squirm. “you’ve been doused in water repeatedly for about two days straight now.” Mark ceased all movement, and his heart plummeted into his shoes.

 

“Two days?” he yelled, unable to help himself. “I’ve been here for two days?” The panic deepened, and his head swam. No, it couldn’t have been that long. 

 

The man regarded him for a moment, before bringing his hand back to slap him. Mark went silent, eyes falling to the floor, skimming over Chica. Grief and fear hit him hard again.

 

“Indeed,” the man said as if nothing had happened. “Two days to soak in water.” Mark couldn’t seem to focus on why that was important. _Two days?_ It seemed so unimportant. _Water?_

 

Mark soon understood why it was so important.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this ones a little short, I will try to make the next one extra long! (Just be patient) Comments are my sun, not leaving a comment is my kryptonite. If you _liked_ my story punch that kudos button in the face. ;)


	7. Fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fischbach's lives' are falling apart, Mark has found his little piece of Hell, and everyone is in shambles. Time trudges on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!!! There are rape/non-con elements in this chapter. Graphic depictions of molestation and sexual assault. If you are sensitive to this I would like to advise you to skip over this chapter. Please do not read it if this will cause you distress or mental harm.

Saturday March 5th, 11:00 AM

Unknown Location

 

 

Amy’s breath had been knocked out of her chest when the man with the mask pushed her against the wall. An expanse of black and red smooth plastic fit to the man’s face perfectly. The mask was clearly custom-made, and it made Amy shudder. His chest pressed into hers, and she couldn’t regain her breath. 

 

“Where’s Mark?” she breathed, too afraid to speak above a whisper. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. These men were the ones who took him. A chuckle came distorted from the mask. The man moved her hair from her face, and she cringed, wanting to knock his hand away. The man had her arms pinned between them, and she felt overwhelmingly helpless. 

 

“He’s here,” the man whispered into her ear, taunting. Amy closed her eyes, pretending the man didn’t exist. Let the hope of Mark being alive flood her system. “Waiting for you,” the man’s breath brushed against her ear and she shuddered. 

 

“Where?” she whispered again, voice breaking. Tears were gathering in her eyes. “Where’s my Mark?” She missed him more than she could put into words. The man backed up then and Amy took a deep breath in, catching herself on the wall to keep from falling. The man took her arm, pulling her off balance towards him. Amy struggled, trying to pull back, but the man would not let her. 

 

“Amy,” the man chided, voice deep and taunting. “I’m right here,” his voice was a mockery of Mark’s. Tears glided through the dirt on her cheeks, but she held her chin up.

 

“Take me to him,” she said. This time she spoke loudly, commanding. The man led her out with a mocking bow.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday March 5th, 11:05 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán felt his insides curl as he watched his phone. His eyes were wide and he felt frozen. He watched for another moment, heart racing, ears turning red in unvoiced anger and fear. Finally he broke from the trance, turning to Bob. 

 

“We need,” his voice cracked and he swallowed. “We need to go to the police.” Bob and Wade looked up from their places on the couch. Nobody mentioned that Seán was watching the livestream. They both looked pale.

 

“W-what is it?” Wade’s voice shakes. “Is he—?” he couldn’t finish the sentence, and his chest heaved as he tried not to cry. “Tell me he’s not—” Seán put a shaking hand up to interrupt  him. He shook his head, unable to find the proper words. Wade calmed down, and Bob took his white-knuckled hand off the arm of the couch.

 

“It’s Amy,” his voice is just above a whisper. “They have Amy.” There was a collective intake of breath from both Wade and Bob. 

 

“Shit.” Bob’s voice is rough. Seán forced his heavy limbs to move as he searched his pockets frantically. He cursed, brows knitting together.

 

“Where?” he whispered to himself. 

 

“What?” Wade asked. 

 

“The detective, her number, I have it here somewhere!” Seán was getting frustrated, hands moving rapidly. “Dammit!” he exclaimed. He had to find it.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday March 5th, 11:10 AM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark heaved in a breath, body still as he stared at her. Her eyes were locked on Chica, tears flowing from them freely.

 

“Amy?” he breathed, the word pouring like honey over his lips. Tears rose in his eyes as the corner of his lips twisted up in a hesitant smile. He thought he’d never see her again. Amy let out a sob, hands covering her mouth as she moved her eyes to meet his.

 

“Mark!” she sobbed, starting for him. She screamed as she was stopped by a hand in her hair. 

 

“Hey!” Mark yelled, fighting against his restraints. “Leave her alone!” Amy was pushed to the ground, boot in her hair to keep her head down. Her eyes pleaded with Mark and tears began to fall from his eyes. “Get off her!” The man laughed, pressing harder with his foot, and Amy cried out. “Stop!” Mark cried. “Please, stop!” The man lifted his foot and Mark relaxed slightly, until the man grabbed her by the hair again, dragging her towards him. Mark was about to protest when he felt breath in his ear. He went rigid, muscles tensing. 

 

“Mark,” the man with the blue eyes said behind him. Mark squirmed, wanting to escape. The way he said his name was…almost tender. Mark immediately felt uncomfortable. His hand rested on his shoulder, and Mark flinched. The man laughed, hand sliding up to his neck. His palm rested on Mark’s racing pulse. 

 

Amy was silent, watching the exchange with terrified eyes. Mark tried to lean away from the touch but the hand followed him. “I’m going to give you two options,” the man breathed in his ear. He shuddered. The man pressed his fingers into Mark’s neck and there was a quick intake of breath. Mark nodded obediently. “Good,” the man’s voice was different than it had ever been. It wasn’t angry, it wasn’t amused. It wasn’t happy, or annoyed, or enthused. It was… _something_. The timbre of his voice seemed almost gravelly, as it dropped an octave. 

 

Something was trying to crawl out of Mark’s skin, the hair on his neck standing on end. His heart raced too fast, he was almost hyperventilating. For the life of him he didn't understand, but his body did. It reacted far worse than it had in the past. His body seemed to pick up on the implications far faster than Mark himself could. His mind was clouded, but he was terrified. 

 

The ragged sounds of Amy breathing, and the racing of his own heart pounded in Mark’s ears. 

 

“The first option,” the man began, voice still in a chilling whisper. “is that my friend,” a pause, and an intake of breath that rushed past Mark’s ear. “will take your sweet little girlfriend for a test drive.” Mark felt his blood boil, rage rising so fast through his veins he thought he was burning.

 

“ **No!** ” he roared, coming to life. He pulled at his restraints with new fervor, a low growl working in his throat. The man chuckled in his ear, but Mark ignored it, chest heaving, eyes locked threateningly on the man holding Amy. 

 

“There is another option,” he sing-songed, and suddenly apprehension was thick in his gut. The rage began to dwindle, and Mark felt like he was getting emotional whiplash. He nodded, though, face set. If they were going to kill him then fine. 

 

“What is it?” he growled out, words punching the air with tightly clenched fists. The man’s hand began to slide down. From his neck, down to his chest, resting over a nipple. 

 

Now Mark understood.

 

“Wait!” he cried instinctively, as the hand dropped lower. 

 

“Oh?” Now the man’s voice seemed so sinister. Dark. Mark could hear the lust now that he knew what was happening. Suddenly Amy’s attacker grasped at her shirt, beginning to tear it from her body. Amy screamed, closing her eyes, failing against him. She was shaking, and Mark was crying.

 

“Stop!” he yelled, and the man did. “F-fine,” Mark’s voice was trembling, and the tears would not stop. The man with the blue eyes let out a contented sigh, hand roaming around the expanse of Mark’s chest. Mark closed his eyes, breathing in heavily through his nose.

 

“No,” Amy sobbed, pulling at the man holding her. Mark’s chest was heaving as he tried in vain to keep calm. His blood roared in his ears and the hand resting on his nipple could not be ignored. 

 

When the hand stopped, Mark slumped in relief. Of course he wasn’t really going to do… _that_. Mark opened his eyes, and jumped. The man with the blue eyes was leaning over him, studying him in a way he never had before. What Mark was more stunned to find was that the man had replaced his mask, hiding his face again, recognizable only by his cold piercing eyes, and his voice. Relief for Amy’s wellbeing washed over him, and for a moment his heart soared. Amy was going to live through this. 

 

The man stopped Mark’s train of thought, caressing his cheek with his hand.  Mark wanted to move back, wanted to grab his girlfriend, and hold her, and run away with her. Immobility was starting to take its toll on him. He felt like a rat in a cage. 

 

The man held a pocket knife in the other hand, tracing it along the flesh of Mark’s cheek. Mark’s breath hitched, and he tensed. But the man only trailed it down to his chest. Mark gasped, expecting to be gutted, but the knife just skimmed over his skin. As the man trailed it down to his jeans Mark choked on a sob. 

 

Collecting himself as best as he could, and trying to ignore the man slicing through his jeans, Mark lifted his eyes to look into Amy’s. _I’m going to be okay,_ he thought, hoping Amy would understand. 

 

She was sobbing, trying to stumble away from the man holding her every chance she got. Mark knew he wasn’t going to be okay. He’d heard horror stories about situations like these, and he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to survive this. But he wanted Amy to be okay. He wanted lessen her pain. Air hit Mark’s legs and he whimpered, clenching his eyes closed. The tears wouldn’t stop. He didn’t know how far it would go. _Oh my god, what if there’s damage?_   The prospect was terrifying and humiliating. Mark couldn’t stop the sob that heaved in his chest as the man palmed him through his boxers. 

 

 _Stop._ It was on the tip of his tongue, but he wouldn’t let himself say it. He could do this. _For Amy._ The man reached his hand in Mark’s boxers and he sucked in a breath, eyes finding Amy’s once more.

 

“Don’t look,” he whispered,  voice breaking. Another whimper was forced from his mouth. The man clenched his hand around Mark and he gasped, legs twitching. With horror Mark realized he was getting hard, and he let out another sob. He was biting hard on his lip, forcing himself not to beg him to stop. He reopened the earlier bite and blood ran down his chin. 

 

“Good,” the man with the blue eyes praised quietly. “getting hard for me.” Mark turned his head away from the camera best he could. He hoped Amy wasn’t watching. He hoped his mom, his stepmom, his brother weren’t watching. The sobs were frequent now, Mark couldn't hold them back. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. The man pumped Mark a little faster and Mark bucked in his grip. 

 

“Please,” Mark said, breaking his own promise. “I can’t, please,” the man tsked, squeezing Mark gently. Mark let out an ashamed moan. 

 

“Don’t fight the pleasure, Mark,” the man hissed. Mark could feel it building. His skin was flushed from the chest up, and his whole body was shuddering violently as he fought against what was inevitable. The man worked his hand faster and faster, until Mark was just on the edge. 

 

“No!” Mark screamed, body spasming. He came with a cry that was a mix between a moan and a wail. His shame shot out onto his chest. Mark felt physically ill, trying to breath through the afterglow of his orgasm and his oncoming panic attack. He didn’t look up to meet Amy’s eyes, he didn’t look up to the camera to show that he was okay. He hung his head to hide his face with his hair, and cried. Loud hiccups and sobs peeking out from the curtain of red hair. His shoulders shook with it. The cries echoed around the warehouse, reaching back to Mark’s ears and making him cry harder.

 

The man with the blue eyes, however, was very pleased with himself.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday March 5th, 1:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie had decided to shut the internet off. With her and James always at work, and school out before they got home, she couldn’t guarantee that Alex would stay away from the livestream. She knew he’d seen at least a little bit of it. With recent developments she could not risk the chance of Alex seeing. It was too graphic. It had been before, but now… Alex was too young to have to understand these things. 

 

Carrie held him in her arms, petting his head.

 

“Is he going to die, Mom?” he asked, and Carrie sighed, wishing she had a good answer.

 

“I will do everything in my power to save him, Alex.” Alex buried his head in her neck.

 

“He didn’t do anything wrong.” 

 

“I know,” she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. “Sometimes bad things happen to good people.

 

The moment was broken by the ringing of Carrie’s phone. Alex jumped, and she rubbed his back, before dislodging herself. 

 

“Detective Stevens,” she said, hopes high that it was Jack with the hair results. It wasn’t.

 

“D-detective Stevens?” the voice on the other end muttered. The voice had a thick accent. It was that Irish kid, Seán. She sighed into the phone. _Hadn’t I said that?_ she thought cynically. 

 

“Look, Mr. McLoughlin, we haven’t found Mark yet, but we are doing the best we can. Have a good day.” She hung up, not really registering the panicked ‘wait!’. She padded over to the fridge to make lunch for Alex and herself, but was stopped by her phone ringing once again. She sighed exaggeratedly, pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off the headache. 

 

She felt for the victim’s friends, she did, but often times they would get in her way of finding their loved ones.

 

“Detective Stevens,” she ground out, irritated.

 

“Please don’t hang up,” the Irish kid said fast, voice breaking in parts. Carrie softened as she realized he was crying. “Please,” 

 

“Alright, alright,” she said. “What do you need, Seán?” She could hear how grateful he was that she said his first name by the short sigh of relief that followed her words.

 

“It’s Amy,” he said, voice wavering.

 

“Amy?” Carrie said. She thought back to Fischbach’s files. “Isn't that his—?”

 

“Girlfriend,” Seán finished for her. “She’s on the livestream too.” There was a pause as Carrie soaked in the information. “They took her too.” Shock hit her hard. In four years the ‘Redroom Killers’ had only ever taken one person at a time, the one thing about their M.O. that remained consistent. Carrie clenched her hand around the phone to keep from throwing it. 

 

“Meet me at the precinct.” she hung up, calling out for Alex. “We have to go, Hun,” she said gently, grabbing her keys. Alex gave her a questioning look. “Work,” she said. She didn’t explain why he was coming, and he didn’t protest to going with her. They got in the car silently. On the way there Alex muttered something about something called ‘Amyplier’. Carrie didn’t want to ask. 

 

When they got to the precinct they had barely walked through the doors before Seán was practically attacking them. 

 

“You have to do somethin’ now!” he said, voice high pitched and loud. Carrie winced. Before she could respond he continued, his accent thicker, and almost hard to understand.  “They’re fockin’ using Amy to hurt him. They’re fockin’ molest—” Before he could finish his sentence, carrie put a hand. 

 

“Mr. McLoughlin!” she said loudly. “This is my _son,_ Alex.” Seán stood in shock, regret on his face.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, tears falling down his cheeks. “But we need to find him. Detective Stevens, we have to save him.” He broke down then, hand covering his eyes to protect some of his dignity. 

 

“You’re Jacksepticeye!” Alex piped up, looking uncomfortable and upset. “Please don’t cry,” he said softly. Seán moved his hand, looking at Alex. He kneeled down in front of him.

 

“Yeah,” he murmured, just barely keeping from full out sobbing. “Yeah, I’m Jacksepticeye.” He gave Alex a small half-hearted smile.

 

“Are you gonna help Mom find Markiplier?” he asked, and Seán had to collect himself, fighting more tears.

 

“I…” he said, before Carrie could interject. “Yes, I’m gonna find Markiplier.” his voice cracked on the name. Carrie directed him to her office where Tom, Wade, and Mrs. Fischbach were waiting. Wade was trying to keep it together, but Tom and Mrs. Fischbach were having a harder time coping. Carrie was about to address everyone, ask them a few questions, and tell them to go home, but once again she was interrupted by Seán.

 

“I’ve been watching the feed,” he admitted, voice thick. “There’s…” he paused, looking up as if God would give him strength to say the words, or maybe to keep the tears from spilling past his eyes. “I think…” Carrie cleared her throat.

 

“The recent abuse that your son, Mark, has been through, Mrs. Fischbach,” she said addressing the mother only. She felt her own throat close up for a minute. _If something like this were to happen to Alex._ “was um…” Over the years Carrie had always wanted to find a better way to give this news. It was times like these — when she had to tell a parent what had happened to their child — she hated her job, and the world. “Your son, Mark, has become a victim of sexual assault.” To say their’ reaction was passionate would be an understatement. Judging by the looks on their faces they didn’t know, but Mr. McLoughlin and Mr. Barnes did. There was a moment of silence before Tom punched Carrie’s desk, splitting his knuckles. His mother sobbed into her hands. It was clear that for now, their lives were in fragments.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! seventh chapter out. Really gettin' in here, huh? This is really exciting for me, I gotta say. This is the longest I've stuck with a story. Thinking I might do a Dark and/or Anti gen fic...what d'you guys think?


	8. Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Fischbach struggles to cope, Mark falls under the spell of drugs, and the gang finally posts their videos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again, guys! Chapter 8 is here, yay!  
> Chapter warnings: non-con elements, non-consensual drug use, taunting, crying, struggling to deal.
> 
> Thanks you guys, anyone who's been following the story. It's so cool!

Sunday March 6th, 7:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán’s hands were shaking as he turned on Mark’s video equipment, set up in front of the bed in the guest room. He knew Mark would not have a problem with him using it, but he couldn’t record in Mark’s studio room. It felt wrong. Like an invasion of privacy. 

 

He sighed exaggeratedly, rubbing his palms together to stop the shaking. It didn’t work. He ran his hand along the top of his jeans. Somehow the friction was comforting. He closed his eyes and choked on a breath before collecting himself. 

 

“Hey, guys,” he said, replacing his boisterous intro with a more serious one. “I know most of you know about Mark’s…” he struggled to find the words. Predicament? Danger? “Situation.” the words seemed dispassionate to his own ears and he winced. “For those of you that haven’t heard on the news, or seen the livestream on his own twitch account; Mark has been taken. By these people that—that _hurt_ people online for money. If you’ve ever heard of a redroom, than it’s like that.” Seán felt tears rise in his eyes and his voice got thick, but he pushed it all down. “Anyway, just…all I want to say is, guys, please, don’t watch the livestream. I know some of you have, and I know it’s inevitable, but _jesus_. Give Mark some privacy, this isn’t yours to see, and it’s not your right to watch. Don’t give those bastards anymore than they have taken, please.” He took a deep breath, pushing his hands through his hair. He felt like a hypocrite, but it was different, right? He was a friend. “Um…” he thought about how to address his fans next. He didn’t want Mark’s abduction to seem unimportant, but his fans were worried about him. It’d been a week without Seán having posted anything. “You guys have been worried about me, and about my channel, but I want you guys to know that I’m fine. Mark is the one who needs the support right now, okay? As for scheduling, this might be the last video I make in a long time. Revelmode has gotten together to talk about it, and Wade, Bob, Ethan, Ken, and Marzia as well. We’ve all decided that for right now we can’t be doing videos. It wouldn’t be the same, and it wouldn’t be fair. To you guys, to us…To Mark.” 

 

Seán didn’t think there was anything else to say. He carded his fingers through his hair, tugging on it. The pressure was relaxing. He sighed. “Alright, that’s all you’ll probably see from me in a while, so goodbye, and thank you for your support.” He reached over to turn the camera off. He wished he could’ve done something more for his fans. For Mark. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 7:30 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Felix turned the camera on, shifting uncomfortably. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when he saw the red light flicker on. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say. 

 

“Hello,” he said lamely. He couldn’t really bring himself to do his intro. He was exhausted, and he didn’t want to take away from the gravity of what had happened. “So, um…” there were tears in his eyes already and he hadn’t even said anything yet. “I guess the only thing that needs to be said is that Mark is going to make it. I don’t know how yet, and I don’t know when, but he’s going to come home to you guys, to us, to his family. I know you guys are scared for him, and I am too, but he’ll survive. The Los Angeles police department are working hard on it.” He paused, unsure how to continue. “I think it goes without saying that myself, or any other individuals close to Mark will not be posting for a long time. All of Revelmode has come to this decision, as well as others. I’m not sure how long that will be, but these are dire situations, and everyone needs to have their heads in the game.” 

 

He nodded, eyes meeting the camera before reaching over to turn it off. As he was leaving the room he wiped the tears from his eyes.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 7:45 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Wade wrung his hands nervously, looking into his lap before bringing his eyes up to meet the camera. 

 

“I’m sure you guys have heard about the recent tragedy, and uh, I’m sure you guys are excited to hear from some of us in the youtube community, but…” He sighed, running a hand over his face to keep the tears away. “I’m not going to be posting for a while. For a long while…Mark and I,” he let out a a small whine, struggling to keep from crying, before he composed himself. “Mark and I have been friends since high school, and I don’t think I have the capability to pretend I’m okay right now…I’m sorry guys, I just…I can’t do anything until I know he’s okay.” Wade turned off the camera quickly before the tears came. His shoulders shook as he let it out. Almost a week and this was the first time he _really_ let himself feel it. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 7:50 AM

Los Angeles California

 

 

Bob was not looking forward to this video. His fans were, much lie everyone else, were freaking out on all of his social media. They were terrified, and honestly, so was he. He took a moment to compose himself, and switched the camera on. 

 

“Hey,” he began right away, not letting himself be drawn into the sorrow that was swimming in his gut. The awful sense of dread that had been tugging at his organs. “I know you guys are worried about me, and I know you guys are worried about Mark, um, because of these circumstances that we have all fallen under, I’m afraid I can no longer continue posting videos for the time being. The, uh, the _things_ that are going on right now are a little too heavy for all of us, and we are waiting to see when Mark will be back.” 

 

There was a pause, and Bob had to compose himself once more, brushing tears from his eyes. “Because he will be back.” He ran a hand over his hair, letting out a sigh. “So, I just…” he sucked in a breath. “Mark needs support. I know that we can’t expect any of you to do anything big or drastic, and I know that it’s not your job, but Mark needs it. It doesn’t have to be big. Keep your thoughts with him, if your religious pray for him. I don’t know, just anything.” He reached over to turn the camera off, but paused. “Thank you guys, for your support. You can’t possibly imagine what it means right now. Good bye for now.” He switched the camera off, letting out a tired sigh. 

 

It was going to be a long agonizing ride before Mark was back home.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 8:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Aaron took a long moment to collect himself, before reaching over with trembling fingers to turn the camera on. For a moment he was silent, debating what he was going to say. He was sure everyone else, to some degree had said all the things he wanted to.

 

“Hey, everyone,” he said, voice falling near the end. He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come. “Um, I’m sure you’ve heard about the recent events in Los Angeles, and I’m sure you know about my friend, Mark Fischbach. In case you didn’t know Mark was…” his voice cracked and he blinked hard so as not to cry. “Mark was kidnapped.” The sentence ended abruptly and Aaron, for a moment, wasn’t sure how to proceed. “The police don’t have any leads that we know of right now…but uh…They will. I know they will…I mean, they have to, right?” He spoke for a few minutes about supporting Mark and his family with thoughts and kindness.

 

“As you can probably tell, I’m not going to be in the best condition to continue making videos for a while. I’ve talked with other you tubers, and most of us have agreed to not post for a while. This doesn’t mean we’re going dark, it just means that for now we need to focus on our friend and finding him.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 9:00 AM

L.A. Police Precinct

 

 

Mrs. Fischbach was a mess, crying, and blowing her nose into a small red handkerchief, as she stood in front of the camera, the Los Angeles police department behind her. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She knew she had a script to follow, but she couldn’t remember how to form words, so caught up in her grief. When she had composed herself enough to speak properly, her voice was a quivering mess.

 

“Please,” she sobbed at the camera, voice thick. “please bring my Marky back to me. I don’t know who you are, or why you chose my son, but please bring him back.” Her words broke at the end, and she let out a sob. “Let my son go…” At this point it was clear that she could no longer deal with the situation at hand, and Carrie Stevens led her back inside the building, protecting her from the onslaught of questioning from the reporters.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday March 6th, 12:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark watched Amy with hooded eyes, watches the men milling about out of the corner of his eye. He was tired, but he couldn’t sleep, not while Amy was vulnerable. She was currently sleeping, hands tucked under her, chest moving gently. Mark could have watched her for hours, contented, if not for the fear of something happening. The men ignored them mostly, stepping over Amy and around Mark, carrying various forms of equipment that Mark recognized. They were going to be recording something big. Mark knew he should be worried or afraid, but that would come later. For now he could only focus on Amy and her safety. 

 

For what felt like hours, Mark watched Amy, lulled into this general sense of ease, as nothing happened. He could almost ignore the tape bound tightly around his wrists, cutting off his circulation. He could almost ignore the throbbing in his back. He could almost feel safe. That is, until his blurry eyes caught someone stalking towards him and Amy. Immediately he stiffened, squinting to see who it was. The closer he came, the more obvious it was. The man with the blue eyes. 

 

Mark immediately shrunk back from him, as he stepped over Amy, getting near his face. The change in his heart rate was almost painful as it pounded against his chest. He wanted to pull his legs up and curl his arms around himself, but the tape wouldn’t allow it. Mark cursed himself as he shook under the man’s gaze. He squeezed his eyes closed as the man’s hand snaked down his pants, palming him through his boxers. 

 

A whimper escaped his throat and he felt helpless.

 

“Shh,” the man whispered in his ear, and Mark felt a tear drop down his cheek. “Wouldn’t want to wake her up, would we?” Mark couldn’t imagine a more horrifying and disgusting experience, and still he became hard under the man’s consistent touch. 

 

“Please,” Mark whispered through gritted teeth. “Stop, please,” 

 

“What?” the man asked in false innocence. “I let you cum last time, didn’t I?” The man pressed hard on him, before pulling his hand out. Mark let out a sigh, trying to calm himself. The man chuckled, spittle falling on Mark’s cheek. 

 

The pressing silence and anticipation made Mark open eyes, and he was met with the man’s sadistic smile, inches from his face. He met his eyes, and cringed back at how cold they were. Movement distracted him from the man’s eyes, and Mark’s breath hitched as his eyes traced the man’s arm, moving nearer. 

 

The needle seemed bigger than it was, and Mark felt his heart pound harder, beating against his ribs. His stomach clenched, and instinctively tried to throw himself backwards, rocking the chair. The man slammed his other hand on the back of the chair right next Mark’s head, making him flinch. 

 

“What is that?” he whispered, moving his head to avoid the needle. But the man only smiled wider, looking like a mad man. “What are you doing?” he asked louder, still trying not to wake Amy. _She can’t see his face._  

 

“You’ll see,” the man answered lowly, sticking the unavoidable needle into Mark’s neck.

 

“What is that?” Mark asked again, panic pressing hard from the inside of his lungs. His vision blurred, and terror settled uselessly on his chest. His limbs turned into leaden bars, and pressed into the arms of the chairs. “Wha—?” his tongue was too thick, having a hard time forming the words he wanted to say. His lids began to droop, and Mark struggled to keep them open. “No,” he groaned as he fell under. _Help me,_ his muddled mind thought at Amy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 done, wooh *wipes sweat* Nah, I guess this one was pretty tame. It was just hard to incorporate as many people as possible without overcrowding it.


	9. Fans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang fears the worst, Carrie finds a lead, and Mark has some visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay. This one's a doozy.  
> Beware, those who are of the weak heart and weak stomach. This one involves the death of a child. I apologize for the emotional devastation and inconvenience, but I promise, this will further the story in later chapters.

Sunday March 6th, 12:40

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Aaron’s hands were trembling as he looked at the screen on his laptop. Seán seemed to notice this before anyone else did, walking up to him, a look of trepidation on his face. Aaron couldn’t find it in himself to say anything as he felt Seán’s exhale over his shoulder.

 

“Fock,” Seán muttered, voice strained. Aaron refreshed the page twice, thinking maybe it was a mistake, before coming to grips with the situation. 

 

“Guys,” he muttered, unheard, before he collected himself. “Guys!” he shouted, calling their attention to him. Felix and Wade were the only other two in the room at the moment. They walked over cautiously. 

 

“It’s gone,” Seán said under his breath, eyes wide and shocked. 

 

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” Wade asked, voice on the edge of complete panic. Felix ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it. Aaron felt sick.

 

“The livestream…” he took a breath, tears pricking his eyes. “It’s over.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday March 7th, 5:00 AM

Unknown Location

 

 

The room in contrast to the last one was dingy and humid, while the last one had been cold and almost clinical. Mark had opened his eyes, only to regret it, closing them again. The smell of the room was thick and putrid. It made him sick, and his stomach heaved. Mark tried in vain to fall back asleep, as the pain of a splitting headache registered. He groaned, trying to shuffle around, only to find that his hands were raised high above him, though his feet were dragging the ground. That’s when he felt the tearing pain in his shoulders. He got his feet under him with weak shaky legs, panting at the sudden shock of getting his circulation working properly. His feet were wobbly, but he remained on them so as not to put anymore strain on his arms. His toes were numb, but his feet ached. 

 

As he fully awoke to his surroundings, he really began to panic. He had been moved. He had been _moved_ and Amy was _gone_. He looked around, eyes wide, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. The light in the room burned his eyes, and he blinked hard. He shuffled again, letting out a cry as he reopened an especially deep gash on his back. He vaguely felt the blood trailing down his body. 

 

Mark was far more terrified than he had ever been. _Are they going to kill me now?_ He choked at the thought, body shaking. He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

 

The silence was crushing and Mark only had his thoughts and the throbbing of his back to keep him company. Not that he wanted to see any of the people who’d been torturing him. But his thoughts were often self-deprecating in situations like these (not that he’d ever been fucking _tortured_ before), and Mark winced at every mental jab. _Chica’s dead because of you,_ his mind viciously provided, and Mark felt tears prick at his eyes. Shit. _Chica_. He had promised himself he would make it out, go home… But what home did he have without Chica bounding around in it? How was he supposed to go home without her? _You’re going to die in here anyway,_ he thought. _It doesn’t matter anymore._ But a more hopeful, optimistic part of himself spoke up. _What about my moms, Tom, Tyler and Ethan? What about Jack, or Aaron, or Felix, or Ken, or the Grumps?_ He didn’t dare think about Amy. He couldn’t bear the thought of her dead. _People will miss you._ he told himself, as a reassurance. _Will they?_ his mind replied. Mark didn’t know anymore. He wondered if Tom had called the police yet. Or whoever went to his house first. The man with the blue eyes said they hadn’t…was it a day ago? Two days ago? Three? Mark hated not being able to tell how long he’d been there. Surely someone would have called already? 

 

Mark’s neck hurt, but if he dropped his head, his shoulders would burn. The most comfortable position he could find was the one he was in. Feet and legs straining to stay firmly planted, neck burning, wrists tensed in their cuffs, bloody fingers holding onto the rope above him, burning. Eyes focused nervously on the door in front of him. 

 

It was for the first time, left alone to his own thoughts, and enough time to take stock of his injuries and ailments, that Mark noticed just how hungry he was. His stomach rumbled, and ached in need of food. Once again he wondered how long he’d been here. How long had it been since he’d eaten? 

 

His thoughts were cut off as he jerked back, startled by the sound of the heavy metal door scraping along the dirty floor. He watched, heart pounding as it screeched open. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday March 7th, 10:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie was in a good mood. She just got word from Jack (Carrie was grateful towards Jack. He was the only one who still believed in Carrie to solve it down there. Other than James, of course.) about the hair. They had a DNA match. A man named Romero Johnson had a criminal record. Robbery, battery, and one account of murder he couldn’t be convicted of. He was a slippery bastard, who looked like he would skin cats for fun. 

 

Carrie didn’t even say anything before she kicked the door in. Johnson was on his couch watching a rather large television that didn’t fit his income. 

 

“Romero Johnson, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and torture of Mark Fischbach!” she yelled, gun out. He turned his head to look at her, lips upturning into a chilling smile.

 

“Detective,” he said casually, standing. “how nice of you to stop by.” Carrie said nothing, lips curled in disgust. “The kidnap of Mark Fischbach, you say?” he said feigning innocence. “Why, I’ve never heard of him.” His smile grew, clearly thinking Carrie couldn’t do anything. She smiled coldly back at him.

 

“We’ve found your DNA at the scene of the kidnapping.” Johnson’s smile dropped, eyes widening. He said nothing for a moment, processing, before he turned tail and ran. Carrie’s smile widened, and she ran after him. It was exhilarating. This was the first time in four years she’d _done_ something. The thrill of the chase felt great as she pursued Johnson through the house and out the back door. She tackled him in the street, laughing in his ear as she handcuffed him. 

 

“That seemed incriminating, didn’t it?” she snarked, hoisting him to his feet. 

 

Back at the precinct, after Carrie processed Johnson, she was called down to the CSI lab by Jack. As she walked down the stairs, she felt another sweep of excitement. This was finally picking up. 

 

“We’ve found a profile of someone commenting on the stream. Has been since the second victim.” There was a pause as a look of disgust crossed his face. “The SOB is one of the people who always give suggestions.” There were a slew of people who followed the redroom group, and their streams, often giving suggestions about what to do with the victims. Despite the seven years she’d worked cases, Carrie still couldn’t get over how sick people could be. “Normally, we can’t trace their profiles, but they don’t normally post on youtube. This one did.”

 

“You’re amazing, Jack. You got a name?” He nodded, handing her a piece of paper with an address.

 

“Tim Sorben.” As Carrie turned to leave, Jack cleared his throat. She turned back. “Careful, Care, this one has two kids.” Carrie nodded solemnly. What kind family man virtually tortures someone while playing tea party with their kids? She shook her head as she walked up the stairs, but smiled to herself. 

 

The bastards’ll get caught this time. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday March 7th, 12:05 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Wade was beginning to lose his mind. It had been a day, and he was sure Mark was dead. He was also positive that Amy was dead, and the realization that she died to hurt him struck Wade hard. The feed was over, and they weren’t posting anything else. Mark was dead. Amy was dead. Wade felt tears sink down his cheeks, but paid them no mind. He couldn’t fall apart. He had to be there for Tom and Mark’s moms, and everyone else. He couldn’t lose it now. 

 

But he was losing it, and despite the crushing need to be alone, to mourn alone, Wade allowed himself to be surrounded with his friends. _Mark’s_ friends. Seán was beside him to his left, silent tears running down his face, frozen. Shell-shocked. His fingers settled on a whiskey bottle, held between his knees. Bob was on his right, fingers clenched into a tight fist. Aaron had tears in his eyes, but remained silent, occasionally stealing the bottle from Seán to take a big swig. Felix was on the opposite side of the room, fist to the wall, knuckles split. Five minutes previous, he’d punched the wall. He hadn’t moved since. Tyler was sitting cross legged on the floor, stone faced, shut down. But his eyes swam with tears. Ryan was next to Felix, with his hand on his shoulder, standing with him. Being there. Ethan and Ryan M. were on the floor across the way from Tyler, backs against the wall. The only sound in the room was the sniffling coming from Ethan, Ryan M., and Wade himself. 

 

Tom and Mark’s mothers were at the police station with Signe and Marzia for support. No doubt being consoled and reassured that Mark could _possibly_ be alive. Wade thought there was too much to lose to think like that. To have hope, and then having it crushed. There was too much riding on a fucking _possibility_. 

 

All of their predictions had been wrong, and the fans must hate them for it. _He’ll be okay. He’ll make it back. He’ll come home. It’s going to be okay._ What right had they had to give reassurances to the fans? What right did they have to spew the empty words like they were true? When they had no grounds, no knowledge…Just false hope. They gave thousands of people, kids and adults, hope. And it probably crippled them. But the worst thing that Wade did, was give it to himself. 

 

More than a week, and the worry was finally pushed aside so Wade could feel how much he _missed_ his friend. His stomach clenched, and his muscles ached, and he felt the absence in his bones. That’s how he knew Mark was really dead.

 

He let out a quiet snivel, clenching his eyes shut. _Hope destroys you in the end._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday March 7th, 3:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

“LAPD!” Carrie yelled, as she pounded impatiently on the thin wooden door. The house was average, with a Sedan parked in the driveway. Family man was home, but refused to open his door. Carrie growled irritated, before trying the door. It was unlocked. She walked through, gun out. “Mr. Tim Sorben?” she called out, holding the gun steadily out in front of her. “My name is Carrie Stevens, I’m a detective with the LAPD.” No response, the house was silent. “I need you to come with me back to the station.” She moved around a corner, heading into the back of the house, where she saw signs of a struggle. A chair knocked over, blood on the carpet, a shattered vase. Carrie systematically checked every room in the house before heading back to the spot, and lowering her gun. She sighed, running a hand over her hair, smoothing it. 

 

“Damn it,” she muttered, teeth gritted. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday March 7th, 6:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

The top of Mark’s feet grazed the ground, chains pulling at his shoulders and causing molten lava to travel up his arms. He’d lost the strength to hold himself up long ago, and he didn’t have enough energy to scream. The last time he’d screamed was when they’d broken his nose. Mark didn’t know how long ago that was.

 

The bat struck at his midsection again, and all he could do was cough. Blood was inside his mouth and he wasn’t sure if it was because they had knocked teeth out, or because he’d bitten his tongue. His chest was tight, and every breath in he took caused pain to erupt in his ribs. He was sure he had a few broken ones. 

 

The only solace he had was the lack of camera, but that seemed to make them more violent. They pounded at his body with the metal bat, beating the pigment from his skin. They swung carelessly and violently without the need to showcase him. They didn’t have to be careful with his face anymore. Or his body. He was grateful without the watchful eyes, but they had somewhat protected him. He hadn’t realized.

 

The bat carried across his abdomen, proving vehement in breaking all of his bones. The bruises mottling his skin were all different shades and stages, and Mark couldn’t feel it anymore. The hits still winded him, but he was numb. 

 

He wanted to beg and plead. Surely there would be irreparable damage? Surely the senselessness was bad? But Mark’s tongue failed him, flopping uselessly against the roof of his mouth every time he tried to form words. His lips were parted, panting breaths between them, but he could not find the strength to move them. 

 

That was, until the door scraped open with a harsh grating sound. Mark winced, watching with lidded eyes as the man with the blue eyes waltzed in. At first, Mark hadn’t enough energy to care. But then a man came in with two small children. A boy and a girl. Mark’s brows scrunched together, and for a few moments, he didn’t understand. Then the man with the blue eyes ushered everyone out of the room, leaving Mark, himself, and the kids. Mark shifted unconsciously, awaking more fire in his back and shoulders. He held back a whimper as he tried to regain his feet. He wouldn’t be weak. Not now. He would be strong for the kids. 

 

It took him a full two minutes to figure out that the man with the blue eyes wasn’t wearing his mask. It took him thirty seconds to realize what that meant for the little girl and boy. 

 

“These are Kyle and Sandra Sorben.” The man with the blue eyes said, settling his hands on the little girl’s shoulders. She jumped, and Mark noted that her and her brother had been crying. Mark shook his head as best he could, pushing a weak ‘stop’ from his lips. It fell on deaf ears. “You see, they are here because their father, one of my most faithful viewers, got caught. I couldn’t risk having this whole operation shut down, and decided to have him bought here and killed,” he paused, looking down thoughtfully at the children. “I was going to leave them alone, but…” he smiled then, lips curling up into a disgusting smirk as he met Mark’s eyes. “Then I found out they were fans of yours.” Mark shuddered, looking down at the trembling kids with regret. _I’m sorry,_ he thought. He was still unable to form the words he wanted to. “Huge fans,” the man continued, peeling back the young girl’s jacket. She cringed, and Mark’s heart stuttered, jolting forward as if to stop the man itself. The man chuckled, then pointed. Sandra wore a Markiplier t-shirt. Mark closed his eyes briefly, fighting tears. “Aren’t twelve year olds a little young to watch your channel?” the man asked, antagonizing him. Mark felt a rush of air pass his lips. _They’re fucking twelve._ It took a moment of composure, but Mark was finally able to speak.

 

“L-let them go,” he said, voice rough and straining. The little girl sniffled, and her brother moved closer to her, eyeing the man beside them wearily. “Please,” he added, though it’d never helped before. The man’s smile grew, and Mark’s stomach lurched. 

 

The man swiftly grabbed Sandra by the arm, pulling her closer to him. 

 

“Tell him what you think of him,” the man growled at her. Sandra shook her head, more tears forming in her eyes. She looked straight at Mark, back straight, chin up in defiance. 

 

“No,” she whispered. For a young girl, she had an incredible understanding of the situation. The man turned her around and smacked her, causing her to fall. The crack was too loud on Mark’s ears.

 

“Stop!” he managed to yell, voice raw. Sandra let out a cry, but rose back to her feet. The man turned her back around to face Mark.

 

“Tell him,” he said impatiently, tightening his grip on her arm. “What you told me.” Sandra tossed her eyes to look at Kyle, who nodded. 

 

“Markiplier, I think you’re really funny.” 

 

“And?” the man said, voice clipped. 

 

“And you’re my hero,” she said quietly, eyes moving to stare at the floor. “I told him to stop hurting you,” she whispered faintly. Mark couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, and they made long trails down his face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered raggedly. “I’m so sorry.” The man’s laugh was intrusive and awful. Mark had never heard anything so sour. 

 

“If you’re a hero, then save them.” the man said, pulling a jack knife from his jeans pocket. Mark met his eyes, his own wide.

 

“What?” he whispered, as the man began to open the knife. 

 

“You heard me,” the man said. He moved to Kyle, positioning the knife at his throat. Kyle’s eyes went wide, meeting Mark’s. Mark could see him mouthing ‘help me’ as he trembled. 

 

“Stop!” he said again, whole body moving forward, pulling uselessly at the chains. “Please, dammit, stop!” Sandra was pulling at the man’s arm, trying to pry him away from her twin brother, but the man was too strong. Kyle held perfectly still.

 

“Tick  tock,” the man said, making a shallow cut on Kyle’s neck. Blood trickled down, and Kyle gasped. Sandra screamed. Mark pulled against the chains once more. Then again. He pushed through the pain in his shoulders, and his back, and his chest, straining his arms as much as he could. The chains rattled but wouldn’t give. The silence afterwards was deflating.

 

“Please,” Mark said again after he regained his breath. “Please let them go. I won’t fight you anymore, I’ll try to be quiet. I’ll do anything you want, just please, let them go. They’re _kids_ , they won’t tell anybody anything.” The man smiled.

 

“I know,” he said. And he sliced open Kyle’s neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thank you guys, for reading this far. I know I keep saying it, but it means a lot. The fact that you guys like my story is crazy. I really appreciate it.


	10. Ruin (Bon Appetit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is really starting to break, the group is disjointed, and Carrie is closer than she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> Involves death of an animal, death of a child, and perceived cannibalism.  
> Without giving too much away do not read this if you have a weak stomach, a weak heart, a heart, a soul, a dog, humanity.
> 
> The man with the blue eyes is a sick fuck, therefore I am a sick fuck.

Monday March 7th, 6:30 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark’s heart pounded painfully in his chest and the hair on the back of his neck stood. The thump of a fallen body seemed so loud over the shrill scream of the 12 year-old girl. The boy was so small, how could he have a made a sound so loud? Blood circled the concrete floor around Kyle’s head, and Mark felt nausea bubble up in his throat. He tried to swallow it back, but the flow would not leave. He spilled the small amount of bile his stomach contained out over his chest. 

 

The taste was acrid, and the room smelled thick with coppery blood. He could not stop throwing up, but he had nothing left to give. He dry heaved, trying to force his stomach to settle as pain wracked his back and sides. Through it all Sandra was still screaming, kneeling next to her brother, sobbing loudly.

 

“Kyle!” she screamed. “Kyle, _wake up!_ ” Mark continued to hack and cough, chains rattling with every attempt to vomit. The man with the blue eyes laughed, and the sound carried to Mark’s ears. He flinched violently, squeezing his eyes closed so as not to see the blood. To pretend that it wasn’t reality. “Kyle, no!” Sandra cried, shaking his shoulders before holding him to her chest. When Mark opened his eyes she was covered in her twin’s blood. His stomach rolled dangerously again. 

 

Mark watched with red, wet, horror filled eyes as the man walked up to Sandra and her fallen brother. 

 

“Sandra!” he screamed. Sandra turned just in time to see the man grab for her. His hands wrapped around her neck, and Mark shot himself forward, screaming through the agony in his back. The chains rattled but didn’t give. “ _No_!” The man squeezed his hands tighter as Sandra began to choke, eyes bulging out of her head, and Mark felt bilious. She was so small, delicate looking beneath the man’s large hands. Mark let out a sob, pulling at the chains again. “ _Stop_!” The girl’s eyes began to roll back into her head, and the sight was so grisly. “Stop it, damn you, _just fucking stop_!” But Mark’s pleas and screams were being ignored. 

 

Finally the man visibly loosened his grip, giving a large exaggerated sigh. Mark relaxed only slightly, panting harshly. 

 

“Fine,” the man said, with a touch of mock irritation in his voice. With a swift move he promptly snapped her neck. Mark let out a scream, pulling so hard on the chains he dislocated his shoulder. He was so distracted by the whole macabre scene, that he hadn’t noticed that the man had moved until his head was being pulled back harshly. The man with the blue eyes gripped his hair tight, pulling strands of it out. Mark was panting, short hiccuping sobs escaping his trembling lips. His whole body was shaking, sweat and tears covering his face. He turned his eyes to the man.

 

“You didn’t save them.” The man said through gritted teeth, and he sounded angry, but Mark knew he wasn’t. He was _pleased_. 

 

“You sick fuck,” Mark breathed, voice tired and raw. He let out another sob, chest heaving as he cried. “You sick fuck,” he repeated. He wanted to scream, and thrash, and spit at the man, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy. Instead he cried, chest rumbling, trying to ignore all the overwhelming smells, sounds, _sights_. 

 

When he looked back at the twins he realized something. Their eyes were open, and they were _looking_ at him. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Tuesday March 8th, 6:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

For once, Carrie did not want to go to work. She did not want to face the day. Having seen the video recently released by the redroom group via Mr. Fischbach’s youtube, she knew the repercussions that would have for herself and in the media. She didn’t want to face the devastated Mrs. Sorben asking where her husband was, blaming Carrie for the death of her kids. But most of all, she didn’t want to face the chief, knowing that she had the best chance to catch the sons of bitches doing this, and she missed it.

 

Her ear was pressed to James chest, listening to the rhythmic thumping of his heart. He was her rock whenever the job became too much. He was her savior on the worst days.

 

“I could have saved them,” she muttered, even when she knew she couldn’t have.

 

“No,” James whispered into her hair, smoothing it down gently with his soft hand. “There was nothing you could have done.” 

 

“They were _children_ ,” she sighed, curling her arm around her husband’s midsection, pulling him closer. She’d seen it so many times, and still she needed James comfort when it came to a child’s murder. “Who does that?” 

 

“I don’t know, Care,” he said, breath ghosting across her ear. She sighed again, a mixture of contentment and stress. She tilted her head up to kiss him, lips moving in tandem with his, slow and sweet. Married for six years, and he still had the same passion as when they began dating in college. She loved him for that. 

 

His hands ran over her body as they kissed, not hungry, not sexually. Just soothing. 

 

“I love you,” Carrie whispered when they finally broke apart. James’ lips grazed hers as he spoke.

 

“I love you,” 

 

Carrie felt better equipped to face the day. No matter what happened, she had James, and what they had together was pure. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday March 8th, 10:00 AM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark held his breath as he watched the men drag the twins’ bodies away, carelessly throwing them through the threshold. He felt the tears fall as he watched their eyes, lifeless and unseeing, but open. The men held no respect for what or who they used to be as they dragged them. Mark was disgusted. 

 

How dare they?

 

How _dare_ they? 

 

Those had been people. Those had been _children_! Mark felt the anger dissipate as fast as it came, unable to hold it. He was too exhausted, too afraid. He watched through wet eyes as they left. With their departure came the arrival of three other men. One of them he recognized as ‘Military Man’. The other two he had seen around the previous room. He wasn’t sure if they had touched him. He flinched back with a sharp intake of breath as ‘Military’ grabbed for him. His eyes were wide, and the pupils were blown. He was terrified. Traumatized by the horrific scene, and the prolonged time he was exposed to the bodies, he couldn’t process correctly. He shuffled back, forcing the chains taut. This caused the pain in his back and shoulder to flare violently. He let go of the position, swinging outward with a shout, eyes scrunching closed, then blinking furiously. He let out a terrified moan as ‘Military’ grabbed at his wrists. Mark thrashed again, kicking out at the man. ‘Military’ brought his hand out and struck Mark, making his head snap to the side. A cut on his cheek reopened, and he whimpered. 

 

“Maybe we should just leave him tied up?” One of the other men suggested. Mark still couldn’t register what was happening. 

 

“Whatever,” ‘Military’ grunted, stepping back from Mark. The other two followed the motion, and he was grateful for the space. There was minutes of silence, as Mark watched the three men in anticipation. Their gazes locked onto him, and he shuddered under their gazes, uncomfortable. Mark felt the urge to shift and fidget, but forced himself still. Everything still hurt, all of his wounds were torn open, he shouldn’t be straining himself more than necessary.

 

Mark was cut from his thought process by the screeching of the metal door. it sounded to loud to his hyper-aware ears. He watched, still horrified and out of it, as the man with the blue eyes entered. As he watched him saunter closer, Mark realized dazedly that he was really fucking tired of seeing the man’s face. He watched with trepidation as the man settled inches from him. He flinched back as the man raised his hands to his wrists, heart beating rapidly. He was more afraid of the man than he had been of anyone in his life. 

 

But the man simply unlocked the cuffs straining his wrists, watching with cool eyes as he dropped unceremoniously to the ground, a short cry pulled from his lips. 

 

“Get up,” he said, voice flat and irritated sounding. Mark could tell it was fake, and he could hear something else in his voice that sent a shiver down his spine. Excitement. He rolled onto his stomach, trying to get his arms under him, but everything burned and ached, and he simply couldn’t. “Get up!” the man yelled at him, and Mark cringed at the raised voice, biting back a sob. They wanted him to do things he wasn’t capable of. They were going to punish him for nothing. Visions of blood and little girls wth blue skin flashed through his mind. He opened his eyes wide to rid himself of them.

 

When Mark finally stopped struggling to get up, lying flat on the ground just trying to _breathe_ , the man with the blue eyes growled, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder. Mark stifled a scream as every muscle tensed in agony. He was dragged over the far side of the room, legs kicking weakly, moving along the floor like they were broken. He grasped the man’s arms for support, hating the contact, but afraid of falling. The man deposited him roughly on the floor. Mark managed to prop himself up against the wall.

 

He looked up at the man with all of the hate and anger he could muster, but the recent events had shaken him up too much. Instead he looked terrified of what he would do. 

 

And he was.

 

He watched as the man produced a needle, far longer than the last one. Mark felt his neck tense, eyes widening. _I have to stay awake!_ he thought, panicked. He had avoided thinking about what the men could have done to him when he was unconscious the last time. He had to be awake. Mark was frozen for a moment, before he realized he wasn’t tied down. Thrilled by the new possibilities, and the newfound freedom, he put a hand on the grimy wall behind him, beginning to hoist himself up. The man did nothing, just watching. ‘Military’ and his friends started forward, but the man with the blue eyes held his hand out in front of them. Mark didn’t want to get up anymore, dreaded the interaction he knew was coming. But Mark had to do it. He couldn’t sit and take it. He fought, that was a part of who he was. Sure he was a coward in some ways, but this? _I want to be stronger than this._ He hoped he was. He barely paid attention as the man handed the needle off to ‘Military’, too focused on keeping himself upright.

 

When Mark finally reached a point where he was on his feet, he took his hand off the wall. He stumbled, falling back into it, before managing to balance himself on shaking legs. There was a cramp in his left foot, and his whole lower body ached from disuse, but he was standing. It took a full agonizing minute for Mark to be able to move further. He looked at the men with a mixture of hate, terror, and wonder. A realization dawned on him then. _I’m standing._ he thought, as if it were a miracle. A surge of energy and thick passionate anger ran through him.

 

Mark lunged, striking out at the man with the blue eyes. The man stumbled back, but his lips were quirked in a smile. He lifted his sleeves up, and swung back. Mark’s body was still adjusting to standing, and was still heavily injured. Despite his adrenaline, Mark didn’t have time to dodge. He was thrown back into the wall, and he howled, back tensing. The lashes across his back were bleeding again, fresh blood leaving tracks in the sweat, the dirt, and the old blood. He dropped to his knees, unable to catch himself on the wall behind him. He looked up at the man, a sneer rising on his face. He rose, as fast as he could — which wasn’t very fast at all — and struck out again. This time the man dodged it easily, and grabbed Mark by the hair, running the back of his head into the wall. Mark gasped, then grunted. His eyes rolled around the now spinning room, before resting on the man.

 

“You know,” the man said, smirking. “I almost thought you had a chance.” He let go of Mark’s hair and he slid down the wall, weak. 

 

Mark almost hated himself for being so pathetic. He knew logically that even if he had been strong enough, it was four against one. Still, Mark’s thoughts were poison. He hated his weakness. More than that he hated the man. He hated everyone in that goddamned room, and everyone working under the man. 

 

Though the adrenaline still pumped through his veins, Mark watched with tired eyes as the man approached him with the needle. It was long and menacing, but more worrisome was the faded yellow solution that resided in it. 

 

“Tell me what it is,” Mark’s voice was a low growl. Whether the man with the blue eyes respected that Mark spoke out without pleading, or he was stunned by Mark’s display of courage or anger, the man answered.

 

“It’s a solution of my own creation. A cocktail of a couple of different drugs, mixed with Succinylcholine.” Mark was pretty sure he didn’t want to know what that was. “A common brand of it is Anectine, it’s a paralytic.” Mark did know what that was, having been in a hospital enough, it’d even been used on him a few times. Mark’s eyebrows scrunched together, and he narrowed his eyes at the man.

 

“What—?” But Mark took in the look on the man’s face, and his brain began to put the pieces together. He’d been a smart kid who’d aced chemistry. That paired with his general knowledge of anatomy, and the skewed knowledge from television told him exactly what the man planned to do. The look of dawning must have been clear, because the man smiled widely.

 

“You see?” he said. “Isn’t this going to be fun?” _Fun?_ Mark mustered all of his courage, and spit at the man. The man wiped a hand down his face. It twisted with rage, before smoothing out, deceptively calm. “I was only going to give you half,” he said, harshly sticking the needle into Mark’s chest. Mark didn’t even have time to move. “but now I’m going to give you all of it. I hope you don’t die too early.” His eyes burned with cold rage, barely concealed, posed just under the surface. The man laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder, pushing down to steady him. Mark trembled under the touch, under the gaze. He said nothing, panicked eyes silently watching the man. The man leaned into to his ear. “You did this to yourself.” 

 

Mark gasped as the liquid spread throughout his chest. It didn’t quite burn, but the sensation was strange. The feeling left after a moment, but Mark new it was traveling. Could practically hear his blood pumping the poison around his veins. 

 

It took three minutes for the cocktail to take effect, the four men watching with interest. Mark just sat there, waiting, shaking, dreading. But when Mark’s chest began to tighten and breathing became harder, he knew it was beginning to work. It didn’t take long before Mark was gasping for breath, clutching his chest and wheezing pathetically. His face became red, and tears began to form in his eyes. He fell over, writhing, lungs screaming for air. He tried to scream, but could only huff and wheeze as the drugs choked him. 

 

The men were talking but he could no longer hear them, blood roaring in his ears. He was terrified. _I’m going to die,_ he thought, panic gripping him hard. _Fuck, no!_ If he had the breath, he would have sobbed. The man was killing him, and he was right. Mark did it to himself. 

 

This was one of his greatest fears. Well, close enough. The prospect of drowning had always scared Mark, and now the man torturing him had recreated it. _At least there’s no water._ It was a small comfort, but Mark was glad that he wasn’t actually in the ocean, falling to a watery death. 

 

But he was still technically _drowning_ , and even though there was no water he could still _die_. Mark tried to keep his eyes open, but they began to close. His body convulsed, but he no longer felt. As he passed out he was sure he was going to die. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday March 8th, 11:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Wade let out a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other on the steering wheel. Seán was in the passenger seat, and Ethan, Tyler, and Felix were squeezed in the back. They were going to the police station for the hundredth time. They were the only ones that had the energy to do anything anymore. Everyone else was still grieving, unable to bring themselves to face life. Wade knew they were the only ones that still had hope. After the livestream stint,  they had been sure there was no hope to be had, but then that video had been posted. _God, those poor kids,_ Wade thought, heart clenching. He knew there were some sick people out there, he knew people hurt kids…but. It was so gruesome. Who can stomach that? 

 

Upon pulling into the parking lot, Seán grabbed Wade’s arm before he had a chance to get out.

 

“Tell me we’ll find him,” he whispered, voice small and frail, accent thick. Wade knew he could ruin him, could ruin himself, but he spoke anyway.

 

“We’ll find him, Jack.” How else were they supposed to keep going? 

 

As they walked the steps to the precinct, Wade felt a knot grow in his stomach. It happened every time they went. Despite having seen Mark on the video, Wade was always afraid Detective Stevens would tell them he was dead. Would tell them to identify the body. They entered the station, and Wade noted that Seán had latched onto his shoulder, as if needing support to walk. His own shoulder’s were tense, and his eyes were wide. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it. Felix and Ethan had noticed, but said nothing. Tyler was too busy stuck in his head, Wade could tell from his expression.

 

All five of them were startled by the sound of an agonized scream cutting through the precinct. Wade felt tears rise in his throat, as he recognized the sound immediately. Seán beside him squeezed harder on his shoulder, whole body tensing. Tyler was visibly fighting back tears, while Ethan had let them spill down his cheeks. Felix’s eye were wide, and he had a hand over his ear, the other frozen midway. They were all frozen, eyes wide in horror as they listened to their friend scream. Vaguely, Wade could hear the sound of something slicing through air. _God._  

 

Suddenly Detective Stevens was in front of them, leading them to her office.

 

“Shut that off!” she yelled to another cop, who had been watching the stream. Wade tried to find the words he wanted to say. _It’s okay._ He thought for a moment, but then he realized that that’s not what he wanted to say. He wanted to say ‘Stop!’ He wanted to say ‘Do your job and find him!’ But the words stuck in his throat, and he knew that they were doing their best. When they were in her office, safe from the awful sounds, Wade collapsed in a chair. Upon looking around he realized there were six squeezed in the room. He tried to pull a smile together but couldn’t muster the energy. He watched as the other four did the same.

 

“Detective Stevens,” Felix began, voice thick with emotion, almost indecipherable through his thick accent. Wade had hung out enough with him to know that that only happened when he was upset. This was taking a toll on all of them. “have you found anything?” Detective Stevens shook her head, and Wade slumped farther in his seat. He didn’t think he could deal with anymore heartbreak. 

 

“Well, we had a lead, but that turned out cold,” her voice grew frustrated when she said that, and Wade tried to see it from her perspective. How long had she been working the case? Three years? Four? Wade felt for her. It must’ve been hard to watch someone get away with something when they should have been stopped, over and over again. 

 

“Please,” Ethan muttered, and Wade’s heart clenched at the sound of his voice. Small, sad, almost broken. “You have to find him,” Detective Stevens shut her eyes for a moment, and Wade knew she was fighting with herself. Finally she opened them and looked at the group with steely eyes.

 

“Look, we do have a lead. We have one of the guys who kidnapped your friend in lock up, we’re going to start interrogating him soon. Just hold out for a little longer, okay? We’ll find him.” Wade’s heart leapt before he squashed it down, reminding himself that it didn’t mean anything. Wade tried to quell the rage bubbling up inside him as he thought about the man, just a flight of stairs away.

 

“I’m scared for him,” Seán admitted, and Tyler nodded in agreement, still fighting the tears in his eyes.

 

“Me too,” It sounded thicker than before and he cringed at the sound of his own voice. He sounded wrecked. He thought back to the last time he slept, and found himself unable to remember. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday March 8th, 12:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

 

Mark woke up to the smell of _food_. He didn’t realize he wasn’t dead, couldn’t feel joy over being alive. Instead his stomach growled and clenched viscously and saliva filled his mouth. He had been lying on his back, and though everything ached, his eyes immediately found the plate. It looked only semi-clean, but that wasn’t what caught his attention. A medium piece of steak sat on it, steaming and delicious-looking. Without much thought as to why he wasn’t dead or why the food was there he practically dove for it. He picked it up gingerly, as if it would disappear if he held it wrong. The smell was tantalizing and was driving him crazy. It was the first time in what must have been _days_ he would have eaten. He bit into it, not savoring the taste as he almost swallowed without chewing. He actually moaned as he felt the food hit his stomach. 

 

He had gotten through ten bites when the man with the blue eyes cleared his throat. Mark stopped mid bite, looking up, eyes wide. The man’s smile was sickly sweet.

 

“Does she taste good?” he asked innocently. Mark choked, dropping the piece of meat onto the floor, stumbling back from it. _Holy fucking shit!_ Mark let out a cry, hand moving up to his throat. 

 

“Tell me you _didn’t_ ,” was all Mark managed to say. _The little girl,_ Mark thought, tears falling down his cheeks. _Oh my god, the little girl,_ Mark couldn’t breathe again, chest tight, nausea building up in his throat. He began to cough, trying to throw up. Despite the circumstances, Mark’s stomach was not ready to give up the only sustenance it had been able to get. It clung to the meat hard, and Mark could not rid his body of it. The man watched as Mark retched dryly, laughing at the failed attempts. He allowed him to panic before clearing the mistake.

 

“Doesn’t dog taste wonderful?” Mark’s eyes bulged, and he turned his head to the man, tears flowing fast and steady. Somewhat relieved, somewhat more horrified.

 

“Ch-chica?” he asked, throat raw, voice choked. The man nodded with a casual smile.

“Cooked it special for you,” Mark shook his head, looking at the piece of meat like he could bring her back to life by staring it down.

 

Mark was disgusted, more with himself than the man. He hadn’t even thought about it, just _ate_. _Oh god, Chica,_ Mark’s stomach didn’t hurt for the first time in god knows how long, but Mark couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. Chica was his best friend. She wasn’t fucking _food_. Mark sobbed, still trying to throw up. _I have to get her out!_ he thought, crying harder. 

 

Mark stuck his fingers down his throat, shoving painfully at the back of it. He retched and coughed, but still his stomach would not release the bites he had taken. He pushed harder, nearly choking himself, before finally, _finally_ his stomach relented, and bile spilled over his hand. He dropped it, letting his head sink down as he threw up onto the floor. He repeated this action until he was sure it was all out, and then some, not even realizing when the man left the room. Not hearing the door as it scraped harshly shut. 

 

When his stomach was empty again, he crawled to a corner of the room, avoiding his own vomit. He curled his legs up to his chest, avoiding looking at the small slab of meat across the room, at _Chica_. He put his head down, tried to shut down, but his thoughts plagued him and he kept seeing Chica on the floor, bleeding. He was almost grateful the man had taken his jeans. They had been soaked in her blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry guys. I'm so so sorry.


	11. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amy finds her way back, Carrie's missing the big picture, and Mark has an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter eleven is here! I did it, yay me! Anywhore let the story commence!

Wednesday March 9th, 1:05 AM

LA Police Precinct

 

 

Carrie was tired. Having stayed at the precinct since eleven in the morning. She hadn’t left since she’d met with Mr. Fischbach’s friends. She’d been pouring over questions, comments, and suggestions the whole day, eyes straining from the computer screen. They were awful, depraved things that people said, and she kept coming back to Mrs. Fischbach in her head. _What if that was my son?_ She had beat herself up over the process for most of the day as she read the exclamations of excitement. The worst were the suggestions. Things people could not act upon themselves, looking to someone else to complete their sick fantasies, watching as a man struggled to survive, egging the situation on, leers on their hidden faces. The internet was a blessing, god knows, but sometimes it just created more turmoil for the world. For people. It was times like these when she really had to find herself. Times when she didn’t have James or Alex to immediately calm her. Times she had to remember why she became a cop in the first place. 

 

She wanted to protect people, didn’t want to be helpless when someone was in danger. _And here you are…_ Her mind provided. _Shut up!_ She shot back at herself. The long hours only added to the stress. It was only now — as Carrie decided to look at the time, that she really felt the pull of gravity on her eyelids. She rubbed her eyes roughly, mentally pulling herself together. She hadn’t even interrogated Johnson yet, leaving him in lockup the whole day. She ran a hand over her face, sighing deeply. She knew she shouldn’t after staying up for nineteen plus hours, knew it was a bad idea, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She both dreaded and excitedly anticipated this interrogation. Despite her mixed feelings, she rose from her chair and began the descent, calling ahead to have Leo move Johnson from lockup to the interrogation room. 

 

Upon entering the room — a hot cup of crappy coffee, and a file folder in one hand, quietly closing the door with the other, she immediately realized it was a bad idea. The sharp light pounded on her eyes, and her small headache increased in size. But it had been four years, and she needed some goddamn answers. She sat down as calmly as she could, trying not to plop into the chair like a huffy teenager, setting the file down, but keeping the cup in her hand. After being awake for so long she needed something to ground her, and the warmth of the cup was doing just that. 

 

“Mr. Johnson,” she all but snarled, trying to maintain calm professionalism, but failing. “multiple accounts of robbery, a few accounts of battery, one account of murder, and now kidnap and torture?” She tsked, shaking her head at him. “You’re record’s getting pretty full.” Romero just sneered, turning his head petulantly to look at something else. Carrie stared at him a moment, frustrated by his behavior. _Pull yourself together, Carrie, he’s just another case._ But it wasn’t just another case. This was _her_ case. This was the case she’d been stuck on for years. This is the case that taunted her. 

 

But, she’d be damned if it was the case that ruined her. She sucked in a deep breath, taking a controlled sip of her coffee, before setting it down. She needed to be her own anchor for her emotions. 

 

“Do you really want to go away, Romero?” she asked him, pulling his attention back to her. “If you confess, tell us where your friends are, we can get you a deal. You won’t have to spend so much time in prison. Tell us who you’ve been working under, and you won’t get put away for murder, _they_ will.” Romero scoffed, eyes finding hers, an amused smirk finding one corner of his lips. 

 

“You don’t know anything, do you?” he asked, a short laugh tacked at the end. Carrie was caught of guard, and her eyebrows knit together.

 

“Excuse me?” she asked, fighting hard to push the oncoming rage down. 

 

“You heard me,” he snarked, tilting his chin in her direction. “You don’t know shit.” Carrie took another deep breath through her nose. “It’s right under your fucking nose, has been for five years.” 

 

“Look,” Carrie began, feeling her patience dwindle, and her temper grow shorter. “tell us who you’ve been working for, and _maybe_ —” But she was cut off.

 

“You’re so fucking blind to it, _Carrie_.” Carrie’s blood hit a boiling point, and her calm fell short. 

 

“Shut the fuck up, you little prick!” she sneered, hands planted on the table in front of him. Her face was in his, reasserting dominance, but he just laughed, pulling against the cuffs to clink them against the table. It was supposed to be upsetting and it was. The noise only added to Carrie’s anger. “Tell me who you’re working for!” she yelled again. 

 

“Is it keeping you up at night?” he stage whispered, voice mocking. “Ya look tired, detective.” Carrie’s vision was tilting, and her mind was reeling, but she paid neither mind as she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

 

“Where _is_ he?” she yelled. Romero’s grin was shit eating.

 

“Who, Fischbach?” his smile widened. “Why would I know?” his feigned innocence made Carrie’s eyes darken with rage.

 

“You know exactly who I’m talking about! Where’s the bastard you’ve been working for? Who’s running the fucking show‽” Romero laughed and the sound grated against Carrie’s ears. She ground her teeth, balling her hand into fist. She was preparing to punch the man, when her chief burst in. 

 

“That’s enough!” he yelled, and Carrie immediately dropped Romero’s collar, taking a step back.

 

“Chief Marster,” she said, surprised. Guilt and shame immediately began to filter through her anger. “Sir, I—” The Chief lifted a hand up, silencing her. 

 

As Carrie followed The Chief out the door, she tried to ignore Johnson’s laugh.

 

“Detective Stevens,” The Chief began, voice low and disappointed. Carrie felt her stomach clench. “I’m taking you off the case.” Carrie wasn’t exactly surprised. But anger built up in her anyway. She knew it wasn’t wise to argue, the man could take away her badge for a week if he happened to decide she needed a break, but she had missed out on too much sleep, and her nerves were shot. She had to defend herself.

 

“Sir,” she said, voice clipped. “With all due respect, I’m the only cop around here who knows the _exact_ ins and outs of this case.” Marster stopped walking, holding his hand out to her. 

 

“That’s the problem.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Look, Carrie,” he lowered his voice. “I knew I should have taken you off the case in the beginning of the second year. It was a bad judgment call, and I’m sorry.” Carrie not only felt indignant, but embarrassed. 

 

“Sir, you’re wrong,” she said bluntly.

 

“I’m not,” he said, voice strained. “You’re too close to this, Detective.”

 

“No one else, will be able to solve this,” she said, voice rising. “I’ve been getting breaks, Marster, I know I can solve this if you just give me a little time.” 

 

“I gave you time,” he said, voice rising as well. “And what did I get? Hitting a suspect? What the hell was that, Carrie?” Shame tinted Carrie’s cheeks. 

 

“It won’t happen again,” she said lowly. 

 

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again,” he said. His hands worked their way down his face. “You get three weeks, Detective. If it’s not wrapped up by then, I’m taking you off the case, then I want your badge and gun for a month. You need a rest.” His voice became gentle near the end, staring at Carrie sternly. Though she wanted to, she didn’t argue.

 

“Thank you, Sir.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 9th, 9:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

 

Amy stumbled up the steps, clutching her shirt closed, sweat, tears and grime streaking her face. The hotel was silent as she staggered through the doors. A pair of eyes were on her, and she paused, a sob wrenched from her chest. 

 

“Is this the Triplet Hotel?” she asked, voice trembling. The van had dropped her off on the corner, and she still couldn’t get her bearings. The man at the reception nodded silently, eyes wide. He probably couldn’t decide what to do. Amy knew she looked like she had been attacked. She had been. Continuing to the desk, she leaned against it, panting. There were tears in her eyes and she was embarrassed and shaken. “Is there a Jason Fischbach here? Or a Tyler Scheid? Or an Ethan Nestor?” Her hands clenched into fists as she watched them shake, refusing to look at the man.

 

“I’m afraid,” he begun, still confused. “That we cannot give out that inform—” But Amy cut him off, more tears flowing from her eyes.

 

“Please,” she sobbed, finally looking at him. Her face grew red as she stared at him, fully aware she was begging. “Can you call one of them down?” she asked instead, forcing a calm to her voice that sounded fake even to her ears. “Seán McLoughlin, or Felix Kjellberg? Or Jason Fischbach?” She was close to a panic attack, one hand winding subconsciously into her dirty hair. “Please,” she hated how pathetic her voice sounded.

 

After what seemed like hours, the man nodded, picking up the phone on his desk.

 

“Is this Mr. Fischbach?” he asked, still eyeing Amy wearily. “Would you tell him there is a woman here to see him?” 

 

Another hour-like wait in extremely uncomfortable silence. Amy kept her eyes down on her twitching fingers, but she could feel the man staring at her. She only lifted her arms when she heard the gasp.

 

“Amy?” Signe exclaimed, tears in her eyes, as she practically ran her over. Amy nodded into her shoulder as they hugged, sniffling quietly. 

 

“Jesus, fock,” Seán muttered, surprised.

 

“We thought you were dead,” Wade said, voice quaking. Tom said nothing, pulling Amy into his chest without a word. They stayed like that for a moment, before he whispered in her ear.

 

“How is he?” his voice was wrecked, and Amy felt a sob bubble up in her chest. Words were suddenly lost to her, and she just shook her head into his chest. She felt his tears splash into her hair and felt her own tears well up and spill over.

 

“Alive,” she finally whispered, voice broken.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesday March 9th, 9:00 PM

Unknown Location

 

Mark was silent. They jeered at him. They sneered, and laughed, and yelled at him. They beat him, and electrocuted him, but other than screams, Mark had not opened his mouth. The fight in him had gone. Died away. 

 

He didn’t cry, he didn’t beg or plead. Didn’t fight back. He didn’t care anymore. He was so _exhausted_. He didn’t have the energy to do anything except stay in his corner, letting them do whatever they wanted. The man with the blue eyes was growing angry with him, but Mark couldn’t find it in himself to even feel triumphant. 

 

This time Mark was alone, watching the wall. The only thing he had left were his thoughts, but they were awful vicious things he never wanted to be alone with again. _You selfish prick,_ he told himself, eyes wandering over to the slab of meat the men had never picked up. _You fucking ate her._ He flinched at the thought, quickly averting his eyes back to the wall. _You sick son of a bitch._ Mark’s thoughts had been going in circles lately. He used to fight with himself. He didn’t anymore. Just felt more defeated. 

 

When the man with the blue eyes opened the door, with its loud intrusive scraping, Mark cringed, but otherwise did not react. Mark could tell by the look in his eyes that he was really going for a reaction. Mark didn’t care all that much. 

 

The man was feet from Mark, when ‘Military’ stepped in, calling for him. Mark wasn’t listening and missed the name. _What’s it matter?_ He thought miserably. _If I’m lucky I’ll die in here._ Though Mark wasn’t listening to their words, he was looking at their expressions.

 

The man with the blue eyes was livid, more angry than Mark had ever seen him. ‘Military’ actually took a step back, afraid. The man pulled out a flip phone, before turning on his heel. He barked orders through the phone in angry tones as he and ‘Military’ left the room in a hurry. 

 

Mark waited for them to close the door, as he listened to the sound of fading footsteps.

 

He waited.

 

And waited.

 

And waited.

 

It took Mark far too long to realize that the door wasn’t only _unlocked_ , but it was _open_. His heart leapt out of his chest, and suddenly Mark was alive again. His fingers twitched, and his eyes were wide. His legs were slow to move, but if he could just stand on them then maybe…

 

 _Freedom_. Mark’s brain stuttered and tripped over the word, repeating it over and over again. He didn’t know how long he’d been there — Maybe a couple of days? Maybe four? — but  the idea of being out of the room, out of the building filled Mark with such a sense of hope. 

 

When Mark finally managed to stand, with help from the wall, he had to stop to take a breath, limbs shaking in obvious effort. He took a shaky step forward, nearly falling. But as he took another step, and another, confidence began to build. Hope smothered his chest, and for the first time in a long time, Mark was sure he was going to be okay. 

 

When he reached the door, he held his breath, heart beating loud in his ears. He looked out and saw the room he had been in previously. The camera was moved, but the chair was still there. Mark shivered as he recognized his own fluids on it. Looking around the room he saw maybe three people. 

 

None of them looked very combatant, and their attentions were focused on a computer screen off to the side of the room. _If I can sneak past them…_ Mark licked his lips, heart beating faster. He watched them carefully, and when none of them turned, he took a cautious step forward. His heart was beating harder again, and Mark was sure the sound of it would get him caught, but none of them moved. Mark held his breath as he crept unsteadily across the floor. He was painfully aware of every sound he made, but the three people in the room were fortunately not. 

 

He was just at the door, just at _freedom_ , when one looked up at him. 

 

“Hey!” she said, and Mark recognized her voice. He’d heard her that first day. His stomach lurched and panic gripped hard at his chest. He wheezed out a breath, and for a moment everyone was frozen. Then Mark shot out the door, and the three began to chase. Mark barely managed to slam the door shut behind him.  

 

Disoriented, and weak, Mark looked around, desperate for a place to hide. He couldn’t outrun them, he knew that. It was night, and Mark couldn’t tell where he was, but he knew that if he didn’t find somewhere to go he was going back in that room.

 

And Mark knew with sickening certainty that he would never leave again. 

 

He turned wildly, wide eyes searching. They landed on a dumpster across the street, and he started sprinting as fast as he could. It was slower than he would have liked. His ribs seemed to rub against one another, and his legs were shaky and weak, but he managed to lodge himself into the dumpster just as the three techs were opening the door. He could only pray that they hadn’t seen him. 

 

He covered his nose and mouth as the smell of the dumpster and the pain in his ribs,  shoulder, and back became overwhelming. He whimpered from behind his fingers, trying desperately to keep quiet. He listened carefully to the sounds outside the dumpster, and, much like a sitting duck, waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that took way too long to write. But, I'm really excited! Are you guys? Thanks again for reading, I really can't say it enough. I'd never been so confident about my writing before (please shoot me off my high horse if I get too egotistical xD) It means so much that people actually like my content. Should I write this out and turn it into a novella?


	12. Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark finds freedom, Carrie gets too close for her own good, and the youtube troupe finds a broken man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeeellll, it's heating up isn't it? A lot of you think it's James....Hmmm. Did I really paint him in a bad light? Interesting....
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
> (Trigger warning ~ someone gets shot in the chest. Minor gore, lots of feels)

Thursday March 10th, 5:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie stood over her dining room table, pouring over a map of the city. A red sharpie in her hand. The victims case files were sprawled out on the table just beyond the map. Behind her James rubbed her arm, placing a cup of coffee on the table in front of her.

 

“Another early morning?” he asked, kissing her neck.

 

“Mmm,” she nodded, leaning back towards his soft lips. “Gotta find the connection between the victims.” James tutted, turning her head to kiss her lips. 

 

“At five A.M.?” he asked against her lips, warm breath coating the skin of her face. She nodded slightly, going up for another kiss. “Alex is still asleep,” he breathed, voice the breath of a whisper. “Come lay down with me,” He started to pull her forward, but she resisted.

 

“I can’t babe,” she said. 

 

“C’mon, Care, when was the last time we had sex?” he asked, voice a slight whine. Carrie giggled, but shook her head.

 

“Marster gave me three weeks, I can’t screw it up, James. I have to solve it.” 

 

“Care,” he said, voice a mix between stern and amused. “this case has been open for awhile now, just an hour or two wouldn’t hurt,” he tugged gently on her again, but she leaned backwards to avoid the pull.

 

“No, James,” she said, more serious now. “A man’s life is in danger here, and anyway, this bastard needs to be caught.” James seemed almost caught off guard by this, but he nodded, features softening.

 

“I’m sorry babe,” he said. 

 

“I’ve noticed you’ve been on edge too,” Carrie said casually as she took a sip of her coffee. James tilted his head, eyes surprised.

 

“I’m not…I mean I guess?” Carrie laughed softly. If he thought she didn’t know him by now.

 

“I’m not stupid, I can see it clear on your face. Sometimes you look like a kicked puppy, sometimes you look like a ticked king kong.” She tilted her head back. “What’s going on?” James let out a sigh, working a kink in his neck with his hand.

 

“It’s work,” he said. “There’s this guy at the bar who’s stolen from the cash, but the boss isn’t sure whether to fire him or not. I think he should but…I don’t know,” his eyebrows knit together, and he looked tormented. “I hate getting in the middle of this stuff, you know? But it’s not okay, to steal.” Carrie shook her head at him.

 

“Look, Lancelot,” she said smiling at his earnestness. “you don’t have to get in the middle of it. Is the guy hurting anyone?” James hesitated before shaking his head. “Then let the boss sort it out himself and don’t pick any fights with the guy. If you’re not stealing yourself, then you shouldn’t worry about it, alright?” she pulled him to her, giving him a peck on the lips. 

 

“Thank you for your faithful advice, King Arthur,” she laughed light-hearted, before turning back to her map. 

 

“Now…where was I?” she thought aloud. Something was bugging her about this… She sifted through each file, marking each address on the map. When she was done, her eyes widened, and she almost felt like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner. “James,” she huffed, voice in awe. “look at this.” James walked to her shoulder, looking over the map. 

 

“What does that mean?” he asked. Carrie shook her head, a smile on her lips.

 

“It means we’re closer.” She pointed at the map. “There’s a small block of warehouses, and every victims house is within a five mile radius of it.” 

 

“Are you sure?” James asked, smiling as well. 

 

“I’m positive,” she was beaming and she turned to meet James’ smile. “We’re going to get them, James,” she said, kissing him hard. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday March 10th, 6:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Mark was hesitant to open his eyes. Everything hurt and he was sure that the escape had been just a dream. Terrified he would be back in that room, with that man and all his henchmen. Those thoughts halted as the smell came back to him and he gagged. Despite the harsh stimulus, his heart soared.

 

Struggling to move, Mark managed to turn himself around to push at the lid with his good arm, cradling the other to his chest. At first the lid wouldn’t budge, and Mark began to panic, claustrophobia pushing hard at his insides, afraid that the dumpster would become his prison and his grave. 

 

He pushed harder, brows knitting together as pain ran down his chest and back up again. He bit his lip hard to keep from making sound. It seemed like years until he managed to fling it open, tears of fear and pain running down his face. 

 

The sunshine made it hard for him to see, and he had to squint, but the feel of it on his face was warm, and Mark was happy — hell he was _excited._

 

 _Freedom_ , he thought, pushing himself out of the dumpster. He rolled onto the pavement with a thud, and the pain dial turned up to twelve, licking up his back and his chest like flames. He let out a hoarse cry, struggling to regain equilibrium. 

 

When he finally managed to right himself, he looked around at the street. It was bright and sunny, but Mark could tell it was morning, and not the afternoon. There were little cars around, and the street contained only warehouses. No homes. 

 

Mark sucked in a breath, tears welling up in his eyes. The situation came back to him, and he realized the danger he was still in. There was no one he could ask for help. It wasn’t surprising, as Mark knew he must have been loud. The man with the blue eyes couldn’t very well set up shop in the middle of a homely neighborhood.

 

Mark’s eyes, still roaming, landed on a dark grey van, and he shuddered. He remembered it, knew it must be the same one. They had knocked him out, but something must have gone wrong, because he had woken up as they were driving. He remembered the initial panic he’d felt. It seemed like eons ago.

 

The crushing realization that it wasn’t _over_ yet hit Mark hard and suddenly. His eyes fell upon the abandoned-looking warehouse he had dragged himself from, and he realized that other than the van, there were two other vehicles. The man with the blue eyes was inside. 

 

Fear and absolute panic were the only things that managed to get Mark to his feet. He wobbled down the street as fast as he could, but his injuries made everything so much worse. His left arm hung limply by his side, right arm clutching at his chest to relieve the pain. 

 

He had almost made it down the street, when he heard a yell.

 

“Mark!” the man with the blue eyes yelled at him. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide. He turned to look at him, terrified. _No!_ he thought, more tears welling behind his eyes. He blinked them back, and lifted his chin. “Where do you think you’re going?” The man began to walk towards him, and Mark’s heart stuttered in his chest. He turned back around and renewed his efforts. He had to get to a populated place. He _had_ to. As he passed the street sign, he almost stopped, just barely forced himself to keep going. He knew where he was. 

 

He was only five or six miles from his own street. _Jesus_ , he thought, feeling nausea swell in his gut. _So close to home._ He was so close to a busy street, _so close_ , when a hand grasped his bad arm. He jerked it back, but a gasp left him, and he couldn’t escape. _No. No, no, no. No no no no no no no no no no~_ Goosebumps rose over his skin, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. 

 

“Did you really think you could escape?” the man asked, and Mark took a deep breath in through his nose. He tensed the muscles in his abdomen and lower chest, hoping he wouldn’t cause to much damage or pain. 

 

Mark turned and struck out with his good arm, cursing when the man narrowly dodged it. The man swung back at him, and Mark hit the ground. He _heard_ the crack and was sure another of his ribs were broken. He couldn’t help the scream that came from his mouth. He heard the man curse above him, and he pushed himself up with his good arm. Turning his head, he made eye contact with a woman. He managed to get to his knees, every wheezing breath more difficult than the last.

 

He watched as the woman pulled out her phone, eyes wide. He heard the shot, and watched as the woman’s body hit the ground, blood hitting him in the face. He cried out, stumbling backwards from her body. His chest squeezed when he stumbled directly into the man’s legs.

 

The man pulled him up by the hair, and Mark struggled to his feet to alleviate the pressure. 

 

“You’re lucky we had an audience,” the man growled before dropping him. Mark watched him walk back up the street and out of sight, confused and disoriented. 

 

It took him forever to finally get back to his feet. People were just starting to crowd around, having heard the gunshot.

 

“Somebody help!” he yelled, voice hoarse. “Please!” he leaned over the woman, watching her eyes flutter. “She’s still alive, somebody help her, please!” his voice was really starting to fail him, but he’d seen enough death. Tears were falling from his eyes, and he met the woman’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered at her, but she shook her head.

 

“Not your fault,” she mouthed at him. 

 

Mark’s thoughts were jumbled, and his mind didn’t seem to be working quite right. He didn’t wait for the ambulance. Instead he continued to hobble down the street. He had walked maybe a mile, avoiding passerby stares and exclamations, before somebody stopped on the side of the road. 

 

“Do you need help?” the man asked. Mark hesitated, looking over him carefully with blurry eyes, before nodding. He didn’t recognize the guy at all. Maybe he was safe? Mark didn’t trust that his voice was still usable, and simply nodded. He managed to crawl into the front seat, and caught a glimpse of the backseat. Two kids. 

 

Mark was fighting tears as he barely managed to close the door. 

 

“Thanks,” he rasped, leaning his head back onto the headrest.

 

“Where’re you going?” the man asked, and Mark felt a shiver work its way up his spine. He gave him his address, and settled back into the seat, arm wrapped around his chest, still trying to relieve the pain. When the car jolted to a stop, he groaned, clutching the dashboard for support. 

 

“You look like you need a hospital,” the man said, but didn’t question him further. Mark was grateful for that. He stumbled out of the car, once again thanking the man. As the car drove off he stumbled into his yard. He was stumbling up the path when he caught site of people.

 

His heart leapt as he walked over to them. _She’s alive._ Was his first jumbled thought.

 

“Amy,” he tried to say, but his voice was too gone by this point. None of them heard him. “Jack, Felix, Ethan Tyler, _Tom_ ,” he wasn’t sure if he said their names to be heard, or just to assure himself they were really there.

 

He stumbled up to them, and Wade turned around. They made eye contact, and Mark couldn’t fight the tears anymore. They slipped past his cheeks.

 

“Mark!” Wade’s voice cut through Mark’s head, but he didn’t care. 

 

“Guys,” he muttered, dropping to one knee. His body was giving up on him. He was vaguely aware that he shouldn’t have walked as far as he had, understanding only in the back of his mind that with his injuries he could very well die. “Help me,” he groaned as he collapsed. He heard everyone’s exclamations, and though he hurt _everywhere_ he felt safe enough to pass out.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday March 10th, 11:00 AM

LA Police Precinct

 

 

Carrie felt more confident than she ever had working this case as she walked into the precinct. She was in a fairly good mood, as she had nearly solved it. All the time that she had spent, and she was so close.

 

Her good mood, however, began to ebb as she walked through the building. Everyone that greeted her did so with grim faces and minute shakes of the head. Had something happened? 

 

Had the chief taken her off the case? As she was walking to Marster’s office, a gurney strolled by, a body bag on top of it. Her heart sank as she opened the door.

 

“Chief?” she asked, “What’s going on?” Marster shook his head, sighed. 

 

“Sit down, Detective,” his voice was rough, and carried a hint of something that made Carrie’s blood cold. She couldn’t detect what it was. Wearily, she sat down.

 

“Yes, Sir?” she asked patiently, despite the urge to demand answers. Marster himself sat down, leaned towards her. 

 

Carrie was suddenly filled with nervous energy. 

 

“Detective Stevens,” he began, voice stiff. Carrie’s stomach clenched. “Romero Johnson was found dead in his cell this morning.” And just like that any emotion Carrie held in her body burned away into anger. 

 

“What?” she asked, and her voice was tight. _Dead?_ Before she could stop it: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” slipped out of her mouth. Marster nodded, like he’d known the reaction was coming. He’d worked with her for five years, he must’ve. 

 

“I’m afraid not,” he said solemnly. “Additionally,” he added, and Carrie felt that nervous energy building up again. Every time the chief got overly professional, something unfortunate always happened. Usually it included taking someone off a case, or calling a Cold on one. “we will have to put a pause on the redroom case until the preliminary investigation of Romero Johnson can be performed.” 

 

“No!” Carrie said, almost jumping from her chair. She reached for the rolled map in her back pocket. “I know where they’re keeping him!” she said rushed. “If we send a team in now, then we can—” Marster shook his head.

 

“Carrie,” he said, and his voice was almost condescending. “we simply cannot pursue this right now. Not until the investigation can be carried out.” Carrie grew angry again, face turning red.

 

“This will be our only chance!” she said, clenching her palms into fists to keep from yelling. “If we don’t go now, they’ll pack up shop, and we’ll never catch them!” Marster looked like he was getting irritated, but Carrie pushed on. “Anyway, do you think I killed him? My one suspect? My one lead?” she snorted, but Marster didn’t look amused.

 

“I told you you were too close to this, Detective,” he growled. He stood, towering over Carrie, trying to intimidate her, hand outstretched on the desk in front of him. “Now leave it until further notice!” Carrie felt a growl rising in her own throat, but bit it back. Something was telling her not to egg this on. The atmosphere of the room had grown cold, and Carrie’s legs itched, as if urging her to run. She stood to leave, hand clenching the map tight, whole frame shaking in rage. “Leave the map,” he said, and Carrie was caught off guard.

 

“Why?” she said, obstinately. 

 

“Leave. The. Map.” Carrie threw the map on the desk, and grew cautious under his intense gaze. Things were starting to come together in Carrie’s head. Her palms sweat as she turned and left the room. Who would've had the opportunity to kill Johnson in his cell? It obviously had to be a cop...

 

Johnson had said five years. _Five years? That’s very specific._ The case had only been going on for four years. The murders had only happened for four years. So why five years? Five years was how long the chief had been working in Los Angeles. He was always so supportive. why would he try to keep her off the case now?

 

Now that she was close.

 

 _The crime scenes._ she thought distantly. The thoughts forming almost seemed like treason. She’d worked under the man for five years. Trusted him. Carrie had always been put as the first person on the scene in files…but it was always Marster. He was the chief, so he’d never been put down on the paperwork. _And he always does the paperwork._ Why would he insist on doing the paperwork? It’d never seemed important. Carrie had always been too caught up in the case to see anything out of the ordinary, but if she though back, strange patterns popped up.

 

 _Shit._ she thought. Everyone at the precinct working the case was in danger. Carrie walked out of the precinct as fast as she could. She wasn’t aware of Marster watching her on the cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens...Do you guys think Carrie will survive this case? And how do you think Mark will deal with a hospital (again)? 
> 
> Thanks again for reading this, you guys are so cool ^_^ <3


	13. Identification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie has positive identification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a short one, but just as important as the rest. We're getting closer~   
> Enjoy!

Thursday March 10th, 9:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie’s car was parked two streets away, as she strolled casually up the street. Her hood was up and her head was down. The idea was to look like some punk walking around the streets. Her gun was concealed in the pocket of the trashiest sweater she could find. 

 

She walked up the street, eyes darting around the warehouses, searching for any signs of life. When she caught sight of an unmarked grey van, she carefully walked to the other side of the street, leaning against the dumpster there. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting on up and bringing it to her lips. She suppressed a cough, trying to appear relaxed. She looked around carefully, eyes following every shadow, before ducking behind the dumpster to conceal herself. She threw the pack of cigarettes into a puddle next to her, dropping the one from her lips as well. 

 

When her phone buzzed loudly into the silence, Carrie jumped. She flicked it open, aggravated. _Now?_

 

“Detective Stevens,” she hissed as politely as she could. “What is it?”

 

“Marcus Fischbach,” the younger officer, Leo said. Carrie felt her insides clench and she pushed out a sigh.

 

“What about him, Leo?” she said, but she was dreading the answer. 

 

“He was found by his friends on his front lawn.” Carrie felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. _Poor guys._ But Leo wasn’t finished. “He’s in the hospital now.” It took Carrie a moment to process. Finally she spoke.

 

“He’s…?” she could barely form words. Prideful jubilation was bubbling up in her chest. They’d never lost a victim before. Not once. But now? _Ha,_ she thought. 

 

“In the hospital,” Leo finished for her, enjoying her elation. “He’s alive, Detective Stevens.” Before Carrie could celebrate further, something caught her eye. The sound of a car hit her ears, albeit belatedly.  Looking up, she watched Marster’s car pull up to the warehouse.

 

“I’ve gotta go,” she muttered over the phone, sliding it back into her pocket. Her eye twitched as she watched her boss walk into the building, unworried. Rage curled in her chest like a snake, and she wrapped her fingers around her gun. _Murderous bastard,_ she thought. 

 

He had lied to her for years. She had _trusted_ the man. Would’ve put him at her back in a fight, _had_ put him on her back in a fight. She growled low in her throat the more she thought about it. He killed people, innocent people, and watched as she had run around like a headless chicken. Seen the stress it put on her, the bags under her eyes after countless nights without sleep. Watched her _son_ once for her while she was with a victim’s family. Her muscles tensed as she realized this, chest tightening. _I left a murderer with my son._ Rage seeped out of her pores, and her fingernails bit into her palms.

 

She had to force herself to let go of the gun, telling herself it wasn’t for her to decide. Instead she pulled her phone back out, taking pictures of Marster’s car and the building. When she was satisfied with the amount of pictures she had taken she slipped her phone back into her pocket, waiting.

 

It had been a full hour before the chief exited the building. Carrie’s legs were cramped, but she knew it was worth it. She took several more pictures, this time of the chief coming out of the building, along with two other people. 

 

_Gotcha._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Holy shit!_
> 
> I know right?!
> 
> Oops, it seems I've begun talking to myself :p
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this important little blurb.


	14. Timeframe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The youtube troupe is devastated and relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ya go! This took forever, so I really hope you enjoy it. In hindsight it shouldn't have been that hard, but my inspiration died a little, before coming back, so...yeah. I'm sorry it took so long to get out, but enjoy!

Thursday March 10th, 9:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

 

Wade was beginning to lose hope again. The video with the kids had been like a lifeline, but it was over, and they weren’t posting anymore. Despite the horror that the video had brought, it was also hope, hope that Wade desperately needed. But the bank was drying out again. _What if Mark’s dead?_ Wade held back tears in his eyes as the crushing weight of losing hope settled back on his shoulders. It was becoming too much for him to deal. 

 

Wade, and the rest of the group were just outside of Mark’s house, watching the few policemen that were still combing the scene (under Carrie’s orders, Wade had learned. They usually didn’t revisit the crime scene this late into the investigation). Aaron and Felix had said it was to help in any way they could. Wade knew they were just remembering who they lost.

 

As much as the thought choked him, Wade couldn’t say no. He looked over to see Seán, Amy, and Tom struggling to keep it together. They knew why they were there too. 

 

Mark’s moms were allowed into the house, as long as they stayed out of the way and didn’t touch evidence. Wade knew they must have been in Mark’s bedroom, grieving. _He’s not dead,_ he told himself firmly, but he couldn’t keep up the optimism anymore. There was the underlying tone of desolation and hopelessness under it. He knew. He _knew_. The redroom group was playing with them, and honestly, Wade didn’t know how old that video was. Mark could’ve been dead minutes after the livestream ended. 

 

Wade was barely keeping it together, struggling hard to keep the tears out of his eyes. He just barely managed to hold himself back from sobbing, the cry lodged in his throat. He’d done too much crying. His gaze floated slowly to Ken as he spoke.

 

“Guys…” he said, and his voice was strained. A tear worked its way down his face, and Wade cringed, rubbing at his own eyes with the heel of his hand. “M-maybe we should consider the possibility that…” Ken paused, voice laden with grief. He bit his lip, apology in his eyes. “What if…? What if Mark’s dead?” Wade sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been slammed into. His chest was tight and he had to work harder to breathe. It’s what he’d been thinking…but hearing someone say it out loud was jostling. The confirmation of his own thoughts hurt all the more.

 

Seán was the first that spoke, Tom too stunned to speak. He stepped forward, green hair falling in his eyes.

 

“Mark’s not dead,” if Wade hadn’t known him, he wouldn’t have been able to understand him past his accent and the palpable pressure of his words. Seán was crying now, and Amy stepped next to him nodding and sniffling. “We can’t give up on ‘em!” his words were loud and abrasive, and even he flinched. But Amy nodded once more.

 

“He’s right,” she said softly, voice scratchy. “Mark’s not dead. He _can’t_ be dead.” But her words sounded less like reassurance than disbelief. Wade watched like an outsider as Felix and Tyler stepped up beside Ken.

 

 

“But what if he’s right?” Tyler asked. His voice was low and regretful. He sounded like he was in pain. “What if Mark’s…” Tyler couldn’t say it. The word would not pass his lips, and he looked like he would be sick.

 

“We should just…” Felix bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. Wade thought, very distantly, that Felix looked like he might pass out. He was much thinner than he used to be. They all were. Gaunt ghosts waiting for a dead man. “We should be ready. For when…y’know.” He didn’t need to clarify. 

 

Wade was ready to leave. He felt numb, strange inside, like he was a stranger to everything, and yet he _felt_ all the turmoil he had been. He still felt everything so how could he be _numb_? He was processing the situation too slowly and he didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to take a walk. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to see Mark. 

 

But when Wade heard someone stumbling behind him he jumped and turned. His eyes widened and something between a sob and Mark’s name jumped from his throat. 

 

There he was. _Mark_. Alive, but so, so awful looking. He was in nothing but a pair of boxers. One eye was sunken in, but the other was swollen shut, turned deep shades of purple and blue. His chest and abdomen were spattered with bruises in every stage of healing, and dried blood. His left arm hung brokenly by his side, and his right arm curled around his chest. Dirt covered him from head to toe, and something that was suspiciously white flaked on his skin around the blood on his belly. His red hair was faded and limp, hanging in greasy tendrils from his scalp. His feet looked cut up, and one toe looked broken, swollen and a disgusting purple. Tears cascaded down his face, and Wade could see the lack of sleep in his red eyes. Odd blackened bits of skin littered his arms and shoulders, and one cheek had a nasty cut in it. He was gaunt and pale, and any life that he had held was gone. Skin that had held a healthy glow, now was pallid and clammy. Any muscle structure had broken down.

 

Wade was frozen as he watched Mark drop to one knee, wincing when his left arm touched the ground. His voice was broken and raspy, and so goddamn _small._ It was a ghost of what it used to be, and Wade couldn’t process what he had said. He couldn’t make his feet move. He could hear the breathing around him, and for a moment the whole world was still, silent. Then Mark spoke once more.

 

“Help me,” and the stillness was broken by the stunned shouts and the footfalls of the group. Mark fell, presumably unconscious on the pathway, and Wade choked at the sight of his back. It was grisly, bloody, four shades of bruised, and ten shades of _not even remotely normal_. The lacerations they had all bore witness to were swollen around the edges, nasty reds and thick blues. Some white around the edges like stretched skin. It looked infected. Wade felt a scream building up in his chest, but bit it back, moving closer to Mark to help him. To do something, _anything_. 

 

Wade watched, hand hovering in the air, hesitant to touch Mark, as Tom threw himself over to his brother. He held him on the ground, gently placing his head in his lap.

 

“Somebody call an ambulance!” he cried, and Wade felt something akin to disgust bubbling in his throat. Suddenly it was all _real._ Mark could be dying, and Wade was just _standing_ there like a stranger. Wade dug around his pockets with shaking fingers, finally tugging his phone from them. It took him a moment to properly click the necessary numbers, and the ringing seemed to last forever, pulling viciously on his frayed nerves. 

 

When a woman picked up, Wade nearly breathed a sigh of relief, gave her Mark’s address and explained, less than coherently, that they needed an ambulance. Though Mark was unconscious, his body was still tense, and Wade’s heart clenched. 

 

When his thoughts re-attached themselves to the situation, his feelings slammed into his body. The jolt of it made his hands shake, as he knelt by Mark, next to Tyler. His quivering fingers hovered in the air above Mark’s face, afraid to touch. Tears fell from his eyes as he looked up at Tom. 

 

 _I’m so sorry._ he thought at Tom, too choked to say words. His eyes landed on a particularly nasty gash in the middle of his back. Wade was terrified. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 10th, 9:05 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán felt his apprehension rising as he listened to Ken’s shaky voice. Horror was rising up in him as his hands began to shake and tears began to roll down his cheeks. _Mark’s dead_ … The words echoed in his head, poisonous and cruel. He took an unconscious step forward, fist clenching, not bothering to move the hair that had fallen in his eyes. It had gotten too long, and Seán hadn’t cared enough the last ten days to get it cut. 

 

“Mark’s _not_ dead!” he said, words heavy as they fell off his tongue. He turned a sideways glance at Amy as she stood to stand next to him. A splash of relief filtered through Seán and the shaking in his knees dwindled a little.  “We can’t give up on him!” He flinched at the shrillness of his own voice. He knew he was minutes away from breaking apart. 

 

He winced as he thought about Tom and Amy. About Mark’s moms. _How will they live if—?_ He stopped the train of thought, nausea making his stomach roll. _No!_ His mind was going in dizzying circles, and he thought he might be sick.

 

“He’s right,” Amy said softly, voice scratchy. “Mark’s not dead. He _can’t_ be dead.” But her words sounded less like reassurance than disbelief, and they left a bad taste in Seán’s mouth. Seán felt his consternation rise as he watched Tyler and Felix move to stand defensively by Ken.

 

“But what if he’s right?” Tyler asked. His voice was low and regretful, and Seán wanted to hit him for the words. “What if Mark’s…” Tyler couldn’t say it. Seán could see the tic in his jaw as he fought tears. Could see his skin pale as the word crossed his mind. He thought it was true, but he couldn’t fully acknowledge it. _Because he’s not dead._

 

“We should just…” Felix bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. Seán didn’t want him to say it. God, he didn’t want him to say it. “We should be ready. For when…y’know.” He didn’t need to clarify.

 

The unsaid word bounced around his head, smacking into the walls of his frail barrier between the worst of the emotions and him. For now, he was safe from them. He could deny Mark’s death, and deal with the ache in his heart. 

 

But when Seán turned around to see Mark’s broken body stumble over to them. When he saw him, bloodied and pale and _different_. When he watched Mark fall to his knees and cry for help… 

 

The barrier broke. The silence that followed was heartbreaking.

 

The flurry of movement and sounds that followed afterwards were confusing and emotionally draining. Seán was too wrecked to remember it later. He stumbled towards Mark’s fallen body, gasping at the sight of his torn back. He was forced to step back as he felt bile rise in his throat. He sunk to his knees, releasing the contents of his stomach into the grass as images of his back flashed behind his closed eyes.

 

No one acknowledged the fact that he had thrown up, and he didn't blame them. They were too focused on Mark, as they should have been. Once recovered, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and ignored the tears pouring down his face. He landed back on his knees next to Tom, one hand on Tom’s back to keep him stable, and one hand taking Mark’s, just to make sure he wasn’t dead. 

 

If he could feel the warmth of his hand, then…

 

But Mark’s hand was cold, and Seán’s were trembling too much to check for a pulse. He heard Wade calling an ambulance, and Amy’s cries of relief and fear. He was terrified.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 10th, 9:10 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

Ken felt like absolute shit just for suggesting the idea that Mark was dead, but he knew that, while realism sucked, it was also a good thing in the end. The idea that his friend might have died, that fact that his friend might have been brutally _murdered_ stuck a sword through his heart, but having hope, just for it to be taken away was the worst feeling, and Ken wanted everyone to live through this, even if Mark couldn’t. 

 

Despite this, as soon as the words left his mouth he flinched. They were too much, and Ken could feel the panic crackle in the air following them. He sucked in a breath as he watched the groups reactions. It was silent for a moment, and almost everyone was crying. Ken himself included. 

 

“Mark’s not dead!” Seán spoke up first, and Ken cringed at his expression. It was a mix of determination, fear, panic, and heartbreak. Ken felt his chest tighten as he watched the irishman’s shaking hands clench into fists. “We can’t give up on ‘em!” Ken flinched back at, not just the shrillness of the words, but the weight they carried. His heart sank to his shoes as he listened. And then Amy joined him, looking wrecked, and Ken felt guilt crawl up his throat. 

 

When Tyler and Felix stepped up to defend his point, Ken just felt worse. It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have gotten to the point where they were arguing over the possible corpse of their friend. _He should be safe at home._ The words rattled in his head and he felt a sob bubble up in his throat, before he pushed it down. It came out as a choked whimper. His movements were mechanical as he brought a hand up to scratch under his beard. His skin was itchy and his face felt hot under the tears. 

 

But then Wade screamed Mark’s name, and Mark was _there._ He was _alive_ , and there was this strange mix of relief, guilt, fear, and joy crashing into each other in his mind. His legs were frozen, but he wanted to _move._ He wanted to help Mark. And he called for them. And Ken realized that he had just declared him dead, not ten minutes before. 

 

He followed Tyler as he made his way over to Mark, sinking onto the grass behind him, looking at Mark, the injuries. _Oh God._ Tom’s face was turned down as he stared at Mark’s head in his lap. His whole body was shaking, but he clutched Mark’s hair like he would dissipate into the air if he didn’t. 

 

Seán was next to him, and he shot him a guilty look, trying to find his eyes. But he wasn’t looking at Ken, he was holding Mark’s hand, and holding onto Tom’s shoulder. He was paler than usual, and Ken felt apprehension curl in his gut at Seán’s reaction to Mark’s skin. Ken was terrified. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 10th, 9:20 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

Tom was shaking. His body was numb, but he knew that he was shaking. He wondered if he was holding too tight on Mark’s hair, and loosened his grip. But panic clutched at his throat, choking him, until he returned the grip to his hair. _I’m not gonna lose him,_ he thought distantly, as he gently held the side of Mark’s face with his other hand. _I’m not gonna lose him I’m not gonna lose him I’m not gonna lose him…_

 

He wasn’t aware of anything sound him. Not sounds, not sights, not smells, just the feeling of his baby brother’s hair under his fingers. The sight of his baby brother, bleeding, hurting, dying, _broken._ There was a rage building in him, a terror resounding in his marrow. But he couldn’t move. He knew he was crying, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove his hands from his brother. If he let go of Mark, Mark would disappear. Mark would _die_. 

 

When the EMTs came for Mark, tried to remove Tom, he fought them, incoherent, upset. He screamed at them, held tighter to his brother. It took a while for them to separate them, but only with the help of their moms. Only when Dee and Mrs. Fischbach entered his field of vision, did Tom allow them to take his kid brother away. And even then, Tom was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, poor, Mark. And everybody. Ooops, drowning in tears...


	15. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is trapped, Carrie is equal parts determined and worried, everyone else is riding the wave of hope and despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for me to get this out, ugh, I've been losing my mojo, halp. Anyway, I'm still going strong, but I'll work through the rough patch. In hope you enjoy the chapter!

Friday March 11th, 6:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

Carrie shook the sleep from her eyes as her hands swept over the coffee pot, readying it to provide her with the caffeine boost she needed to stay alert. Because she _had_ to stay alert. At this point, after her secret investigation of the chief, it was a dance. And this dance Carrie knew far too well. It was the slick slide of people close to their victims. The delicate snake-like movement of a man who knew his subject well, chasing them down and counting on the feeling of solidarity and trust to impede their escape. 

 

Carrie had seen far too many of these cases to fall for the trick herself. She knew that Marster knew her, but she knew Marster. He would act like nothing had happened. He would send warnings and threats to her through his eyes. He would wait patiently until he could pin Romero’s death on her, and then kill her in prison. And when none of that worked, he would sneak into her house, or car, and kill her. He would put her family in danger.

 

Carrie knew that Marster was a direct man. He would grow impatient fast, fingers itching for action. Carrie wouldn’t let him get the chance. She would slap a murder charge on his ass so fast, his head would spin.

 

She rolled her neck as she listened to the whir of the machine, groaning as her locked bones cracked. In all honesty, she didn’t even know if Marster _knew_ she knew yet. But she had to play it safe.

 

James walked up behind her, digging his thumbs into her stiff muscles. She sunk into the touch, letting her head fall back on his shoulders.

 

“Good morning,” she smiled at him, catching his lips with hers, upside down. He continued to massage down, out of the way of her tilting body. 

 

“Morning, Love,” he said, voice low and soft. Carrie frowned, looking up at his eyes, she straightened and turned to face him. 

 

“Don’t go to the precinct,” she said suddenly, and James frowned back. He raised an eyebrow, watching her intently. 

 

“And why not?” he said, with just a touch of hurt in his voice. Carrie sighed, running a hand through her matted hair. They stuck down the middle. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t want you there, but it’s dangerous.” James gave her a look between concern and confusion.

 

“Dangerous? Why? I go there all the time.” He paused, eyes shifting to the coffee pot in deep thought. “Is it because of the murder that happened? Was it…” he paused again, unwilling to say the next words. “Was it another cop?” Carrie shook her head, eyebrows furrowed. 

 

“I…I can’t say, but, just, James, please, stay away from the precinct for now.” James nodded, but said nothing. The look of concern on his face grew to worry. There was complete silence in the kitchen. Carrie couldn’t stand the idea of James leaving her for another world. The thought of it left an ache in her chest and a burn in her eyes. She was pulled from her thoughts when James finally broke the silence.

 

“Be careful.” Carrie’s next smile was forced, but James relaxed just a tad. Carrie would, at work or not. Carrie would be _extra_ careful. She knew she had to step lightly, but she also had to work quickly, before the window she needed closed. She wasn’t going to let Marster get away with this. 

 

She didn’t even want to go to work, apprehension coiled deep in her stomach, waiting to pounce on her vulnerable nerves. She didn’t trust Marster anymore, but he was her chief, there was still a feeling of faith in him. She hated it. 

 

But…there was also this sense of dread. She didn’t want to leave James alone. She had a bad feeling. _I can’t lose him._ And the thought wasn’t unexpected, but it certainly wasn’t welcome.

 

Carrie took a deep breath, as she started her car, rechecking to make sure she had her gun and her badge. She let out a sigh.

 

She was going to do everything in her power to keep her family safe.

 

She was going to wrap up this case. 

 

Even if it killed her.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 11th, 8:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Seán sat with his head in his hands, listening to Tom talk to himself (their moms were oddly silent). He was seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair just outside Mark’s hospital room. The hum of electricity and the quiet chatter of doctors and nurses were soothing to Seán, but the desperate pleads for Mark to wake up were digging into his mind. Tom would say that he was talking to Mark, but it was obvious Mark probably couldn’t hear anything. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive, that he it might take a while for him to wake up…that he might not wake up at all. The thought made Seán sick. Amy, Tyler, Ethan, Bob, Wade, Aaron, and Ken were all in the waiting room. Signe was in the bathroom. Everyone else had already seen Mark, and were back at the hotel, processing.

 

He waited for Signe to get back with heavy impatience, as images from the stream flashed through his mind. He wanted to see Mark again, wanted to see him alive and breathing, cleaned up and not in so much pain. The wait was killing him, but Signe took some of the edge off. He was grateful for that. He didn’t think he would have survived any of this without her. 

 

“ _Everyone is so excited to see you,”_ Seán could hear Tom say. “ _So if you wanted to wake up, it would probably be for the best._ ” Seán’s chest tightened, and his eyes burned, but he shoved it away. _Mark will wake up,_ he told himself. He didn’t necessarily believe it, but he needed the words to keep functioning. 

 

Seán put his head in his hands, just as Signe sat back down next to him. She put a hand on his back, rubbing reassuringly. 

 

“Hey, Seán,” she murmured, and her voice was a fucking choir of angels. Seán let himself sag as her touch soothed him. 

 

“Hey,” he whispered back, voice depleted from unshed tears. 

 

“Are you okay?” she asked, her hands going up to stroke through his hair. He leaned back, shifting so that he could rest his head on her breast. 

 

“No,” he said, wincing as Tom’s voice carried back out. “I’m so afraid that he won’t wake up. I’m scared of what’ll happen to Tom, Dee, Mrs. Fischbach.” He moved his eyes to her. “If he dies…” his voice broke, and he blinked hard. “I don’t think any of us will survive it.” Signe’s eyes became steely as she regarded him. 

 

“Seán William McLoughlin,” she said, voice hard. “if you do anything stupid, or if I lose you somehow, I will never forgive you. If, and I say _if_ , dammit — _If_ we lose a friend I’ll be _damned_ if I lose the love of my life, too.” Seán was speechless, mouth opening and closing briefly, before closing again. Then Signe’s eyes softened to something sadder. “Don’t make me lose more than one person, Seán,” her voice was soft, mournful, and Seán had to force the tears back. He lifted himself back up, pulling her close to him. She settled into him like a puzzle piece.

 

“I’m sorry, Si,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean…” his words cut off, and he thought hard about them. “I was being selfish…I…” Signe looked up at him, blinking owlishly. “You won’t ever lose me.” Maybe the words were the wrong ones. After everything hadn’t they just learned that you couldn’t make promises like that? That life saw the promises and laughed at them? 

 

But they were the ones Signe needed to hear, and they were the ones Seán needed to say. 

 

“Promise?” she asked. 

 

“Promise.” 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Friday March 11th, 12:00 PM

Los Angeles, California 

 

 

Carrie narrowed her eyes as she watched Marster walk into his office from the window of her own. He stumbled in tired, but Carrie knew there had actually been little work for him lately. At least, not enough for an all-nighter at the office. Besides, she knew for a _fact_ he’d left early the night before. She’d checked. She waited a moment, letting him close the door and get comfortable in his chair, before she walked out of her own office. 

 

Let the dance begin. 

 

She opened the door to his office, forcing back a sneer. He looked up and the smile he gave her was poisonous. 

 

“Detective Stevens,” he said. “why don’t you have a seat?” Carrie moved over to the chair with smooth, controlled motions, but she sat down hard. She didn’t know if Marster suspected her of knowing, but she played it off as if she didn’t. 

 

“Chief,” she said, and she painted her voice thick with exhaustion. It wasn’t too hard. “I’m sorry about yesterday.” Marster leaned back, surprised. _Perfect_. “I know you were just doing your job, but this case has been…Lawrence it’s been _hell_ , and I get that you can’t have it going on while someone maybe in on it in the precinct, but I just feel like I’m _so_ close.” It was all on hundred percent true, but Carrie hated that the words had to sound sincere. 

 

“Carrie,” he said back, and it was like a veil had been lifted. She could hear the deceit now, how had she missed it before? Carrie imagined his tongue forked like a snake. “I know this has been difficult, and I’m sorry,” Carrie had to force herself not to gag. “truly, Carrie, you’re one of the best cops here, but I can’t keep bending the rules for you,” Carrie nodded, feigning understanding. 

 

“I…of course, sir, I’m sorry,” the ‘heartfelt’ words felt heavy on her tongue, and the urge to leap forward and hit the man before her was almost overwhelming. She bit her tongue, and hid it with a sad smile. “It’s been so hard, on my family, my _son_ ,” she wasn’t afraid to pull the woman with a family card. Anything that wasn’t suspicion towards her, she could use against him. It would buy her time. 

 

“It’s okay, Carrie,” the smirk on his face was one she wanted to swat away. Carrie could see the duplicity in his gaze, in the condescending quirk of his lips. She wondered how she never saw it before. She silently cursed herself as she lowered her head, and gazed up at him through her eyelashes, setting her mouth in a sorrowful line.

 

“Thanks, sir,” she said quietly. “I’m going to go over all the files again, see if there’s something I missed…” she paused, scratching her neck. “I know that you don’t want me going to the crime scene, or chasing down leads, but I really can’t promise anything,” She left it open ended, waiting to hear his response. 

 

She had to play it as sincere as she could, keep everything close to the belt, and only give him the brunt of her feelings, without actually giving him information. She had to be careful to act normal, but not overplay it. Would she have said those same words a month ago? Absolutely. Would she have meant them more sincerely? Probably.

 

She watched as he sat back, most likely unaware of the smug look on his face. Carrie was surprised how he’d laid low this long. It’s not like he contained his emotions very well. But when Carrie thought back, there were several instances when Marster had trouble controlling his emotions. Anger, frustration. Carrie had always assumed it was the job. _Jesus Christ._  

 

She excused herself as politely, and kindly as she could without bashing the man’s skull against the wall, returning to her office. She shuffled through her papers, casually looking around every few minutes to make sure the chief wasn’t watching her intently. 

 

She pulled out her phone, flipping through her contacts book, before ringing the Irish kid, Seán. He picked up on the first ring, and Carrie immediately felt for him. Sometimes being a cop made you hyperaware of the dangers people were surrounded by everyday. If she didn’t have an eye on Alex or James, sometimes she’d be afraid to get a call one of them had died, been killed, hit by a drunk driver, fallen off of a bridge. 

 

“Hello?” Seán said, and Carrie could hear the strain in his voice. 

 

“Mr. McLoughlin,” she said, keeping her voice low. She had to warn their little band about who was against them. She had no doubt Marster would send somebody in the hospital to finish the job he started. She had no idea if there were any other cops in on it, but she couldn’t be too careful. “It has come to my attention that there is a dirty cop involved in this,” she paused at Seán’s intake of breath. Poor kid was probably so naive. “I don’t know if there are anymore. Don’t trust any cop.” She heard Seán’s shuddering breaths through the phone. Was he…crying?

 

There was a moment of silence, in which Carrie took the opportunity to sneak a look around, before Seán finally spoke. “What about you?” he asked. Carrie shook her head. 

 

“You can trust me, I’ve been trying to solve this case for four years. If I was in on it I would’ve let go of the stress years ago.” Seán gave a light laugh. 

 

“Thank you, Detective Stevens.” he said softly. She wanted to scold him for being being so trusting of her, but she let it drop. She’d warn him about trusting people later.

 

“How are you holding up?” she asked gently instead, allowing herself to mother him. He sighed into the phone, collecting himself.

 

“Not well,” he said. Carrie could tell from his voice that he was fighting back demons. “Tom keeps acting like he’ll wake up, but…” Then it was Carrie’s turn to sigh. 

 

“All you can do is hope, Seán,” she said, having practiced these exact conversations with countless family members. There was another pause.

 

“Thank you, Detective Stevens,” Seán repeated, and his voice was thicker. “Thank you for helping us, thank you for being there, thank you for not shutting us out of the case.” Carrie felt a small smile grow upon her lips. 

 

 

“No problem, Kid,” she said before she could stop herself. She sobered, grin falling. “I will catch them, Mr. McLoughlin.” She knew it was inappropriate to speak so openly to a victim’s friend, but there was this deep-seated need to say it, to solidify into something real and tangible this time. Seán took a breath in. 

 

“Thank you,” he said again. 

 

Carrie hung up the phone, standing. She grabbed her bag, gathering as many of the files as she could fit in it. She needed to bring them home to ensure their safety. Now she had to head to the hospital, check with Mr. Fischbach’s friends and family officially, and talk to the medical staff. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Unknown

Unknown

 

 

Mark was trapped. He was standing, but his arms and legs would not move. There were no ropes, no chains, no handcuffs. But he was stuck. 

 

Before him stood the man, cold blue eyes trained on his with a dark intensity that made Mark tremble. Tears formed in his eyes, because _didn’t he get away_? But he could not lift a hand to wipe them. The inability to move caused a permanent ache in his chest. Despite all the fear building up in him, he felt lost. 

 

There was nothing but darkness around them, nothing but Mark and the man. The man reached out, and Mark tried to flinch. He couldn’t even move his head anymore. The tears were falling slowly, lifting into the air off of his cheeks and dissipating into the darkness. The man laid his hand on the side of Mark’s head, fingers carding into his hair. Mark opened his mouth to speak, but when he did, the man reacted violently. 

 

Blood poured from Mark’s mouth, cold and metallic, as he looked down, shocked. A knife was plunged into his stomach, the man’s hand attached to it. The man pulled it out, making sure Mark’s eyes were on him, before licking a trail up the knife, swallowing the crimson blood. 

 

Mark felt bile rising in his throat, but it didn’t come, instead leaving a burn in his chest. He tried to swallow it down, but it stayed unmoving. 

 

Mark felt helpless. 

 

He had had plenty of nightmares. Normally they were filled with monsters with claws and fangs. Moons crashing into the Earth, and dead dogs. But this time the monsters wore blue eyes and eager faces, cold and menacing, and far too human.

 

“Please,” he whimpered pathetically. “Stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thank you guys so much for waiting. I know it's been a while, and I feel so bad, but thank you if you're still here, it means so much to me!


	16. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang sleeps. Mark has yet to awaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one will take some interpreting on your part, so I hope you enjoy analyzing ^_^
> 
> Enjoy!

Unknown 

Unknown

 

Mark was going to drown. The clear glass coffin he was trapped in was sinking fast under the waves, and the water was beginning to trickle in. Below him he could see the sharks and fish. Above him he could see the man with the blue eyes’ malicious smile, distorted by the water. 

 

Mark couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw fangs on the other man’s face, and the water was spreading out under him, and _fuck_ it was freezing. The initial panic of the situation that should have set in before was just beginning to surface. Belatedly, Mark’s heart was beginning to beat faster. Despite the temperature of the water — which was beginning to fill his casket up much faster — he was sweating, and the tremors in his body could not be quelled. 

 

A large shark with jagged teeth swam right beside Mark, and his heart jumped in his chest. He let out a cry, beginning to pound on the top of the glass.

 

 

“Please!” he sobbed, chest heaving as tried to push open the tank. “Let me out, please!” The man’s smile widened, and yes, those were definitely fangs. The man made a snapping gesture above him, and a crack formed in the glass, allowing the water to pour in faster. “No!” he screamed, voice shrill and terrified. “Stop, _please_!” The man snapped again, and another crack formed just above him, trickling water directly into his face. He sputtered, panic mounting with desperate speed. 

 

“ _I’ll drown in here!_ ” he screeched, ceasing his pounding on the glass, lest he crack it more. “ _Help me! God please fucking_ ** _help me_**!” The man laughed, and somehow the sound carried beneath the water into his glass prison.  The water was just under his face, now, and J _esus Christ_ he really was going to drown. 

 

As he drifted under the water, as the water filled the glass coffin, Mark’s chest actually hurt from how fast his heart was beating. Black spots danced on his vision as he held his breath. 

 

At first it was just his fingers and toes that he couldn’t feel. Then it was his arms and legs. Then he was completely numb. The lack of sensation terrified him.

 

 

And then, as he sunk beneath the waves, Mark died.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unknown

Unknown

 

Tom was running but from what, he didn’t know. There was blood everywhere, and every once in a while he would slip in it, fall, coat himself in it. 

 

It wasn’t until he got to his destination that he realized he wasn’t running from something, but to something. He stumbled as he came upon a large cage, with thick iron bars. There was a forest around him, and he wasn’t quite sure if it had always been there. He peered into the bars, heart racing in fear. Again, he did not know why.

 

Not until he saw it. 

 

Mark was inside, crumpled like paper on the far side of the cage. He was whispering something, but Tom couldn’t make it out. He was bloodied, and looked ragged and beaten. Tom felt all of his insides clench. 

 

“Mark?” he asked softly, voice barely carrying. Despite this, Mark looked up, eyes wide. 

 

 

“Tom?” Tom had to hold back a sound at the devastation of his brother’s voice. He watched with tears in his eyes as Mark limped over to him. He wrapped able bruised fingers around the bars, and looked at Tom with a pleading look. 

 

The uselessness that crashed over him made him feel weak. It slammed into him again and again as he watched Mark’s supplicating eyes. 

 

“Mark, I’m here,” he said, but he still felt helpless. Pointless words were all he could give.

 

“Tom,” Mark whispered, and his voice was wrecked. “I’m trapped.” Tom felt his stomach drop to his shoes, but said nothing, choking on any words he could say. “Help me, Tom, I’m still trapped!” His voice was growing louder, and Tom had to put his hands over his ears as his little brother began to shriek. “Help me! _I’m still trapped, Tom, fucking help me!_ ” 

 

When Tom woke up he felt nauseous. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unknown 

Unknown

 

 

 

Wade felt like he was losing some important battle. There was a faceless man on the far side of the barren room. He did not move, except to incline his head to the water bottle in the middle of the room. Wade himself was pressed against the wall opposite the faceless man. 

 

There was an anxiety in his chest that he didn’t understand. 

 

He had been watching the man for what felt like hours, afraid to move. Something about him was unsettling. But Wade did not want to be stuck there forever. He slowly moved forward, eyes trained on the man, creeping across the floor with caution. The man did not move, but it perturbed Wade that he could not tell if the man was watching him back. 

 

He picked up the water bottle, but the moment he did, the room changed. It was dirtier, and no longer barren. In the corner of the room, close to the man, was another, curled up, hiding his face. 

 

Wade didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it was Mark. 

 

Wade’s first instinct was to comfort Mark, and to give him the water…But that meant he had to approach the faceless man. Wade really didn’t want to approach the faceless man. But Mark needed him, so he walked cautiously forward, hands beginning to shake as he got closer to the man. 

 

Mark was still huddled in the corner, unmoving, as Wade gently laid a hand on his shoulder. He was hyper-aware of the man that was feet away, but the man made no attempts to move. When Wade attempted to turn Mark, the redhead suddenly came to life. As he turned, Wade was almost afraid he wouldn’t have a face too. But Mark turned his brown eyes towards him, then fell to the water bottle. Wade held it out to him, helping him drink. When he was done, the room changed again. Everything was darker now, but Wade could still make out the faceless man across the room. 

 

Wade was pressed into the wall again, and when he looked around he could see Mark in a chair in the center of the room. His arms were not bound, but he did not move from his seat. Once more the man inclined his head. Wade felt something not unlike terror building in him. He wanted to help Mark, he did, _Jesus Christ_ , he wanted to. But he also didn’t want to go near the faceless man.

 

The feeling was different this time, creeping across the vertebra of his spine, and slinking through his veins. He couldn’t make himself move, feet planted to the ground as Mark began to plead with him.

 

“Wade,” he moaned, tears running down his face. “Help, Wade.” Wade took an unsteady step forward, but his heart began to beat too fast. When his eyes went up, he realized with a start that the man had taken a step forward too. He took a step back, and so did the man. 

 

 

Goosebumps broke out on the skin of Wade’s arms. He took another step forward, nerves frazzled, hands trembling harshly. Then he took another step, and as he did he began to sweat. A cold sweat that dripped from the back of his neck. The man also took another step forward, and Wade wished he could ascertain any features the man might have had. Despite Wade’s frustration, the man remained faceless and eerily quiet. 

 

 

Wade swallowed past the lump in his throat, finally walking with unsteady feet to Mark. As he reached out to help him, Mark screamed, and Wade looked up to see that the man had stabbed Mark in the neck, hand outstretched in nearly the same way Wade’s had been. He scrambled back as blood began to leak from the wound, terrified and sick. Nausea crawled up his throat.

 

 

When Wade awoke he had to put his head between his knees to keep from throwing up. 

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Unknown

Unknown

 

 

Seán was trying to breathe deeply through his mouth, eyes clenched shut as he listened to the choked sounds coming from one of his best friends. Seán had tried hard not to open the door, had heard the warnings, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. The door held captive his attention, and he had pushed it open, despite hearing the awful, heart wrenching noises coming from inside. 

 

Now he wished had never touched it at all. The door had closed behind him, and Seán was trapped, back pressed against the door as if he could fall through it if he tried hard enough. Mark was across the room, suspended in the air by a rope, wrapped in a tight noose around his neck. 

 

Seán was crying, crushing his ears with his hands desperately, but the sounds seemed to be in his mind. Inescapable. The scent of blood was thick and heavy in the air, and he didn’t know where it was coming from, but it was making him sick. 

 

Suddenly, the choked sounds stopped, and Seán was afraid to open his eyes, afraid of what site would greet him.  But he did, once again, curiosity getting the better of him. Instead of seeing Mark hanging, he saw him on the ground, arms curled around himself. 

 

Seán’s heart clenched as he watched the other man twitch and shake. He approached him hesitantly, arm out to console him. He jumped back, eyes wide, as Mark stood abruptly, angry growl leaving his mouth. 

 

“Jack,” he said, voice low and angry. 

 

“Mark?” he said hesitantly, voice small. Confusion mixed with his thoughts, leaving him dazed. Mark advanced forward, but as he did so he shifted into Allison. 

 

 

“Come home, Seán,” she said holding her hand out to him. Still confused and dazed, Seán took a step back, eyebrows scrunching. 

 

“But weren’t you just—?” he asked, but she shushed him, shifting into Malcolm. 

 

“Come for a run with me,” he said, eyes crinkled in a smile. Seán looked from his hand to his face, not understanding. Then he was no longer looking at his brother, but his father. 

 

“Dad?” he asked, tears filling his eyes, though he wasn’t sure why. 

 

“What are you doing here, son?” his dad asked, before turning into his mother. 

 

“Mom?” the tears were falling now, and his voice broke on the word. 

 

“What do you think you’re gonna do?” she asked, chiding him softly. He was sobbing by the time she turned back to Mark.

 

“I wanna wake up, Jack,” he said, voice soft and pleading. 

 

When Jack woke up he had to wipe the tears from his eyes, collapsing exhausted back onto the sheets. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Unknown 

Unknown

 

Ethan was in Mark’s house, though he wasn’t sure how he got there. One hand was wrapped around Chica’s leash, and one was wound in her fur, stroking it lightly. He was sitting on the couch, looking around dazedly, until Chica started barking and growling. Her fur raised on the back of her neck, and her lips were pulled back in a snarl. 

 

“Chica?” he asked, tightening his grip on her leash. “What is it girl?” She was barking at the door, struggling to run to it, putting strain on Ethan’s wrist. Ethan stood, padding over to the door, Chica beside him. As he walked, Chica quieted, tail wagging as if nothing had been wrong. 

 

Ethan’s hand hesitated over the doorknob, something close to trepidation settling just over his skin. He pulled his hand back, but Chica growled again, and Ethan didn’t want to upset her. He turned the handle, slowly opening the door. 

 

In front of him stood a brick wall, blocking his way out. He sighed, irritated, and turned to go sit back on the couch. As he turned he realized he was outside. He walked back to the door, but the brick wall was still there. Chica was gone. 

 

Panic settled in his bones as he began to pound on the brick wall, hearing Mark talking behind it. 

 

“Mark!” he yelled, blue hair flying in his face. “Mark!” as he pounded, Mark’s casual speaking began to get farther away. Ethan continued to bang on the door, fists flying towards the door. He didn’t stop until his hands were bleeding. 

 

He took a step back, turning to find that the street he had been on had changed into a hospital. His feet began to move before he realized what he was doing. They carried him to Mark’s room, but, like before there was a barrier. This time it was glass, and Ethan could see Mark sleeping, almost peaceful looking, if he didn’t have tubes sticking out from everywhere. 

 

Ethan woke up with a gasp, hand going up to remove his sweat. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unknown

Unknown

 

 

Ken could hear it before it started. Soft whispers and loud bangs warning him of their advance. He ran, despite knowing they would catch him. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. They would catch him, and he was putting off the inevitable. His feet carried him across gravel, and grass, and dirt, and sand. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he was going. 

 

He stumbled, feet going out from under him, as his back hit the ground hard. The breath was knocked out of him, and he groaned as he tried to pick himself back up. A foot stepped hard on his chest, stopping the movement. He coughed roughly, hand going up to push at the ankle, but his efforts were fruitless. 

 

He didn’t know who was above him, couldn’t see the face, but it was a man, and he spoke. 

 

“He won’t wake up,” the voice laughed, distorted and harsh on Ken’s ears. 

 

Ken shot up from his place under the blankets, panting harshly, blinking to clear away the lasting effects of adrenaline. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Unknown

Unknown

 

Felix couldn’t breathe. Being smashed into the wall had taken his breath away, and his eyes were rolling around to find his attacker. There was no one there, but he could hear the laugh a man. The laugh sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It was dark, sinister, and it sent a chill down his spine.

 

On the opposite side of the room, Felix could see a metal chair, bolted to the wall behind it. On it was a single flash drive, blinking innocently, as if plugged into a computer. He hesitantly walked over, still cautious of the invisible force that had attacked him. As he walked, his movements began to get harder, slower. He was moving towards the chair, but it felt like he made no progress. The chair seemed farther away with every step he took. 

 

When he looked down he could see sand beneath him. His feet sunk into it with every step, restraining his movements. It seemed like hours before he got to the chair, sweating. His hands were shaking, but he had no idea why. As he reached out to touch the drive, another laugh sounded through the air, making the hair on his neck stand up. 

 

He turned, eyes searching the room wearily for the source of the laugh. When he found nothing, he turned back, eyes roaming over the laptop that was on the chair. Felix wasn’t sure if it had been there before, but he plugged the drive into, watching the screen intently. His hands began to shake harder, and the tremor spread to his knees, then his lips. 

 

It took him a minute to realize that he was crying, hands flying up to rub harshly at his eyes. His eyes remained on the screen. He didn’t want to watch, trepidation curling like a python in his stomach, but his eyes remained glued. 

 

On the screen was a man with a blurred out face. Behind him was another man, with a shock of red hair. He was chained to the ceiling, head bowed, face screwed up in pain. 

 

“Mark?” Felix asked aloud, biting his lip as more tears jumped to his eyes. He turned around, unable to watch anymore. As he did, he saw Mark behind him. He was in the same position as on the screen. Felix looked around for the man with the blurry face, but as he looked around a mirror across the room caught his eye. 

 

As he raised a whip to hit Mark with, he cried out. He didn’t want to, but his limbs moved on his own accord.

 

“Mark!” he screamed, whip coming down to crack over his back. Mark did not scream, did not cry out, or yell. Instead, with a voice that was more calm than it should have been, asked Felix a question. 

 

“Why, Felix?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Felix cried, arm coming back down in another harsh arch. “I’m so sorry.” Mark shook his head, a humorless laugh tumbling from his lips.

 

“No you’re not.” 

 

Felix shot up in bed, hand clutching at his other arm, as if to stop it from coming down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was fun to write. I love dreams, and this was great. I was really excited to get into the mentality of the situation, and figure out how the brain could interpret it. Ugh, this is probably gonna be my favorite chapter to write.


	17. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I is back ^_^ Hello! This one's pretty tame, in comparison to other chapters, but just a little warning for ya~ Chica mention, and mention of the twins that died in previous chapters.
> 
> Enjoy~

Wednesday March 16th, 6:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

Mark clutched at the hand around his throat, eyes wide and panicked as they met cold blue ones. The man smiled coolly as he tightened his grip, fingers pressing into Mark’s jugular. 

 

Tears were falling from his eyes, and Mark tried to plead, but he couldn’t get the words out. His lungs burned, desperately needing air. He dug his nails into the man’s arm, but it did nothing. He struggled, body writhing as he tried to escape. _Stop, please_! He wanted to plead, but the words stuck just under the man’s hand, trapped in his chest. 

 

Agony and terror were mixing in his oxygen deprived brain, and he would have been screaming if he could have. When the man let go, Mark felt relief course through his body, before the man turned him, holding him to his chest. A cloth wrapped itself around his throat, and he did scream, throat raw, as he thrashed around. The cloth tightened around his throat, and any sound he made was cut off. Frustration crept up his limbs, panic making itself present as he kicked at the man. 

 

 _I can’t breathe,_ he thought, terrified. _I’m gonna die, I can’t~I can’t!_  

 

Mark struggled, whole body writhing around. His world tilted around, and it took him a minute to realize that he was suddenly laying down. 

 

It took Mark another moment to realize that there was nothing _around_ his throat, but _inside_ his throat. Humiliation and horror made the sobs start. Had the man with the blue eyes taken it too far?

 

 _Was he—?_ Mark didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to face the situation he was suddenly faced with. He couldn’t accept that could ever happen to him. He wanted to cry, yell, and fucking _beg_ him to stop, that he didn’t want it. But the intrusion stopped the use of his vocal cords.

 

God he couldn’t see, the man could be doing _anything_. 

 

Mark thrashed, panic setting every nerve alive. He could feel sheets under him, and terror hit him full force. _No no no no no no no nononononono~!_ He didn’t want it, _fucking god_ , he didn’t want it. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t beg, he couldn’t yell. His ability to communicate had been taken and he couldn’t say to _stop, please. I don’t want it, please!_

 

Mark’s eyes burst open, as he rose from unconsciousness, head swimming as he panicked, thrashing. He took a deep, heavy breath in through his nose, hand flying up to grab at the thing lodged in his throat. It was thin and plastic, and not _at all_ what he thought it was. Confusion, relief, and trepidation mixed in a head-spinning cocktail, making Mark nauseous. 

 

 

He tried pulling it out, but one of his fingers were hooked up with something, making it clumsy, and his hands were weak. He let out a tired cry from behind it, struggling with it wildly until the sound of footsteps and yelling made him jump and let go of it. 

 

A woman entered the room, face alarmed, and surprised as she ran to his side. She wore scrubs, and Mark’s eyes widened as they took it in. The woman was talking to him now, in hushed careful tones, but Mark couldn’t make out the words. It sounded as if she was talking to him from underwater. He couldn’t tune his ears in. 

 

He looked around the room, wide-eyed, relieved, and slightly cautious of the new environment. He knew he was in a hospital room, but he was so uncomfortable, so unnerved by it, and he didn’t know why. 

 

“…schbach….Mr. Fischbach? _Mr. Fischbach_.” The nurse was talking to him, but his mind was slow to process. He looked up at her with panicked, wet eyes. She met them easily, face stern but not unkind.  “Mr. Fischbach, I’m going to remove the tube,” she said gently, fingers loosely wrapping around the tube. He looked down at it, and nodded minutely, looking back up at her. _Please,_ he thought. 

 

She began to pull it out slowly, and Mark’s throat burned. His first instinct was to pull back from her, but she caught his shoulder with his other arm. 

 

“You have to stay still,” she warned softly, kind smile painting her face. Mark thought it looked particularly beautiful. “Otherwise, I could hurt you.” The statement wasn’t a threat, but Mark felt his heart beat faster anyway, hands clenching in the sheets. Any feelings of calm, or beauty left, as his body reacted far too passionately for the situation at hand. He tried to calm himself down. He knew that the reaction was unfounded, but the fear in his chest would not be pushed down. He should be thankful, relieved, _grateful_ , but instead he was panicking.

 

Tears of frustration and anxiety spilled down his already wet cheeks. 

 

“Shh,” the nurse hushed, clement tone relaxing Mark only slightly. “It’s okay, I just need to take the tube out.” Mark forced back gags as the tube was pulled from his throat. When it was over he felt embarrassed over it. She had talked to him like he was a child, and Mark hated having to need that. But he was grateful for the lack of tubing in his throat. He looked down at his hands, now able to recognize the I.V., and the clip that connected to the heart monitor beeping away beside him. 

 

He took in the light blue walls, and the cream colored curtains that covered the window. Sunlight peeked through them, and Mark’s chest suddenly ached for it. The door of his room was open, and a little pressure lifted off his chest. 

 

There was silence as he took a few moments to look around and get his bearings. _I’m in a hospital._ He thought to himself. _I’m not drowning, I’m not choking, I’m free._ He turned his attention to the nurse and really allowed himself to study her features. She had dark hair, tied up in a messy bun. She wore pink matching scrubs, with black shoes. Her eyes were light hazel, and her face was soft and kind. 

 

He tried to speak after a moment, but his throat failed him. He coughed hard once, then twice, then he was in a full on coughing fit, eyes watering again. The nurse picked up a small cup, pulling out an ice chip and holding it out to Mark. When he tried to take it with his hand, the nurse shook her head minutely. 

 

“Open,” she said gently. Mark wanted to say no, but he was still coughing, and he wanted to relive the burning. He did, but he did so hesitantly, fingers wound in the crinkly sheets below him. He felt vulnerable. It was just an ice chip, but _she_ was controlling it. He would’ve had better peace of mind if he’d been able to hold it himself. She placed it on his tongue.

 

He sucked on it for a few seconds before it melted and trickled down his throat. It was cool, and felt _amazing._ When he had finally managed to get his voice back, though it was rough from days of overuse, he spoke.

 

“Where am I?” he asked, and though his voice was scratchy, it was also low. Mark was almost afraid to make a lot of loud sounds. He didn’t want to jolt himself out of this dream, and find himself back in that building. In either of those rooms. The nurse gave him a pitied look, and he had to look away. _Is that how people will look at me now?_  

 

“You’re at the Pacific Medical Center, in downtown Los Angeles.” the nurse said, and Mark’s shoulders lost a little tension. He’d been there before. He knew it. It was familiar. He wondered if she knew what had happened. He wondered if she’d _seen_. His breath escaped him suddenly, the idea pushing on his chest with heavy amounts of force. He couldn’t ask, he couldn’t ask her if she _knew_ , but suddenly he wanted to know. She spoke once more, pulling him from his own head.

 

“I’m going to go get the doctor, and alert him of your waking up, okay?” Before Mark had a chance to respond (and to ask her to open the curtains, so he could drink up the sunlight,) she was out the door, and Mark was alone. 

 

He thought about home. It had so much appeal. The idea of going back to normal, of sitting in his big comfy wheel-y chair, and recording — No. Mark’s heart stuttered at the thought. He couldn’t face the world, not now, maybe not ever. Not after…

 

God the things that’d happened to him…The whole world had seen it. The whole world had seen what the man with the blue eyes had done to him. What reactions he’d pulled from him. The only thing they’d hadn’t seen was the the twins…

 

Mark’s stomach flipped, and he let out a cry that was barely there. He reached with a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, but it did little to stem the flow. He felt responsible for them. They had only been there because of him, and by extension of his existence, Mark had killed those two children. 

 

He couldn’t post a video after that. Couldn’t show his face when he knew their’ mother was out there somewhere, grieving. 

 

But he could go _home_. Even if he couldn’t go back to normal, not like it had been, he could still sit on his couch, and feel like a human being again. He could eat actual food, and watch television with Chica curled at his—

 

Mark abruptly turned on his side, emptying his stomach on the white tiled floor. There wasn’t much to throw up, just thin spurts of reddish bile. He heard footsteps and snapped his head to the side, glancing at the man that had entered. 

 

 _That must be the doctor._ He leaned back against the thin pillow under his head, looking at the doctor wearily over his nose, exhausted.

 

“Sorry,” he croaked,not meeting the doctor’s eyes. The doctor smiled at him politely, not looking at all bothered. 

 

“That’s alright, Mr. Fischbach,” he said, and Mark put his hand up. 

 

“Mark,” he said quietly. The word felt strange on his tongue. The man with the blue eyes had barely called him by his name, and he’d only heard it once from someone else since he’d escaped. He missed hearing his name. He hadn’t heard it save for those few times in god knows _how long_. 

 

“Mark,” the doctor corrected himself, smile kind and warm. 

 

“Thank you,” Mark said, suddenly extremely grateful. Tears began to gather again, but he managed to blink them back. “Thank you,” The fact that his own name was a reassurance and relieving should have worried him, but he was too caught up in all of his swirling emotions.  The doctor only nodded, stepping closer. 

 

“My name is Dr. Sauren,” he said, looking at the clipboard he held in his hands. “I’ll be your doctor for the period of time that you are here.” Mark nodded, biting at his lip. He was glad he was in a hospital, _alive_ , but he wanted to go home. He wanted something he could hold onto that was familiar. Something he’d had before all of the madness. _Anything._

 

 _Chica_ , his mind supplied for him, and he blinked away more tears. To take his mind off of the one subject he really couldn’t touch, he asked Dr. Sauren the question that’d been bugging him the most.

 

“What day is it?” his voice was still scratchy, but it almost sounded like it was getting better. He reached over with absent fingers to grab at the ice chips, slipping it into his mouth.

 

“Wednesday,” he answered casually, but Mark could see his eyes looking at him expectantly. Mark’s shoulder’s slumped. _Had it really been two days?_ He thought to himself. It felt like that man had taken years of his life from him. 

 

“I’ve been missing for four days?” he said to himself, eyes wide. His eye caught movement, and he looked towards the doctor. Dr. Sauren was giving him a look of confusion mixed with extreme pity. Mark looked up at the ceiling, unable to take the look in his eye.

 

“Do you know what day you were taken?” he asked slowly, and Mark nodded. 

 

“Monday night.” he said. 

 

“The date?” Dr. Sauren asked patiently. Mark thought back. As if he’d ever forget.

 

“February 28,” The doctor sighed, shaking his head. Mark was afraid to ask about the reaction, but the doctor spoke without prompting. 

 

“Today is Wednesday, March sixteen. You were found on the tenth.” Mark gaped, fingers twitching beside him.

 

“I…what?”

 

“I’m sorry, Mark, but you were missing for about ten days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, there was little action in that, which made it a little harder to write. Everything was very stationary...weird.


	18. Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seán gets a call. Mark sees his family. Marster knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I really wanted to capture each moment right with this one. I have a harder time with recovery scenes than I do with actual torture scenes... Oops? Anyway, enjoy!

Wednesday March 16, 8:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

Seán was afraid to pick up his phone. It was the hospital. Why would they be calling him? 

 

 _‘If something happens, you’ll know. It’s our job to notify all family and friends listed on contact if a death occurs.’_ Seán’s heart sank and his stomach dropped as he remembered the conversation. He hadn’t wanted to hear it, but he knew Tom and his mothers hadn’t wanted to ear it either, so he’d sucked it up and listened. 

 

It had made him physically ill. _Not dead._ He told himself. _Not dead._ Repeated once, twice. It became a mantra as his shaking hands reached for the phone. He was sitting in Mark’s living room, the hotel having been abandoned after the police called the house safe to go back to. 

Finally his fingers grazed over it. _I wish Signe was here._ She was in the other room talking to her parents. He answered it, letting out a shaky breath.

 

“Seán McLoughlin?” A lady with a slightly nasally voice asked. 

 

“Yes?” he couldn’t keep the quiver out of his voice.

 

“I was called to inform you of a change in Mark Fischbach’s status?” 

 

“Yes?” he repeated, feeling his emotions being pulled taught. A part of him wanted her to tell him, to rip the bandage off. Another part of him wanted her to never tell him. To drag it out, because the torture was better than the reality. 

 

“Mr. Fischbach has woken up.” Seán’s heart stuttered in his chest as he heard the words. 

 

“Thanks,” he muttered, voice quiet, before hanging up. He let his hand drop, fingers loosely clutching the phone. He took a moment to process, eyes widening in realization. He dashed towards the other room, hitting his body into the doorway to lean in. Signe peered up at him in confusion. 

 

“He’s awake,” despite being across the room, he panted as if he’d run a marathon. “We have to go,” Signe nodded, muttering goodbyes into her phone as she followed him out the door, and into the kitchen. 

 

They gathered all that were in the house: Felix, Marzia, Ethan, Tyler, Bob, Wade, Aaron, Ken, Tom, and his moms. Seán, Signe, Aaron, Wade, and Ethan piled into Seán’s car. Felix, Marzia, Tyler, Ken, and Bob got into Felix’s. Tom and his mothers slid into Tom’s car, and they headed to the hospital. 

 

When they got to the hospital, Seán nearly broke the door trying to get out. Signe had to pull him back to keep him from running to the big hospital doors. They all wanted to see Mark. Seán nodded at her, a small smile painted on his exhausted face. 

 

Together, they all walked inside. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Wednesday March 16, 8:15 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Mark was shaken from his detrimental thoughts by the sound of hushed voice outside his door. His bottom lip was raw from him nervously chewing on it, and it had bled once or twice; to which Mark responded by absently wiping it with the back of his hand. At first he couldn’t tell what the voices were saying, but after hearing what sounded like crying, he was able to strain his ears enough to make out words. 

 

“…despite the assault…unfortunate…no…rape…video…all we need.” Mark felt his breathing pick up as he heard the words. He strained his ears harder, tears falling from his eyes as he listened. The sounds of his mothers crying hit him hard.

 

“The footage is clear,” the doctor was saying. “there is no need to use a rape kit because we already know exactly what happened.” Mark could vaguely hear the jumbled Korean and English words that he knew were tumbling from his mom’s mouth.  “Yes, Mrs. Fischbach he was assaulted.” the doctor paused, speaking more slowly than before. “But we already know that from the footage. A rape kit is only used for a better understanding of what happened, and to find DNA evidence.” More passionate Korean words, some angry English words. “No, we cannot get any DNA evidence from what was done to your son, I’m sorry.” Mark was horrified. 

 

Didn’t they know he could hear them? Just barely, but he could _hear_ them. The panic hit Mark hard as he struggled to breathe. _The whole world knows._ He choked on a sob, biting it back so his family wouldn’t hear it. 

 

There was a vicious voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like the man with the blue eyes. _Everyone knows what a worthless whore you are._ Mark wanted to protest those words, but he was too exhausted to fight with himself. He knew he was protecting Amy, but on some level that didn’t matter. He still let it happen. His breathing began to fail him as his chest heaved uselessly. His heart was beating too fast for it to be good. He was suddenly very, _very_ cold. 

 

Mark had never had a panic attack before. 

 

The whole world was spinning, and Mark could barely register that he was weeping, tears and snot running down his face. He was afraid he might throw up again, as his stomach rolled incessantly, and guilt rose as he remembered the janitor that had come to clean it. He swallowed hard, determined not to throw up again. He knew he couldn’t reach the bucket anymore. He had accidentally knocked it over, _somehow_ , and was too afraid to move and get it. 

 

Upon waking up there had been no pain. He knew it was the morphine, but he was afraid that if he moved, the pain would hit him too hard. He was afraid that if he felt the pain he wouldn’t be able too handle it. That he would be too weak. 

 

Mark was still having trouble breathing when the doctor opened the door to allow his parents and brother inside the room. 

 

“Mark?” Tom asked hesitantly. Mark wanted to nod, smile, hug, touch, be reassured. But he couldn’t form the words. Still couldn’t move. Still couldn’t breathe. His face was red, and he was almost embarrassed about the tears running down his face. His moms were quietly watching him with tears in their eyes, and Mark wanted to tell them he was fine. 

 

“Can’t breathe…” was all he managed to wheeze out. The doctor was inside in a second, and god, Mark was grateful for them, really, but there were too many _fucking people_. The room wasn’t all that small, but Mark felt closed in on. Suddenly so claustrophobic. 

 

“Step back, please,” he heard the doctor murmur to his family. He leaned over him, _too close_. Mark jerked backwards, fingers clenching in the crinkly sheets below him. “Mark?” the doctor asked, straightening to fiddle with his IV stand. “Mark, can you speak to me? Do you know where you are?” Mark was getting frustrated. _Of course_ he knew where he was. He just couldn’t _breathe_. Why wasn’t the doctor helping him breathe?

 

But Mark managed to nod, because he hated not being able to communicate. 

 

“Good,” the doctor said. Mark’s eyes flew over to his family. Now Tom had large tears dripping from his eyes. Mark’s chest stung. They were crying over him. _I’m sorry_ , he thought, guilt making the pressure on his lungs worse. He wanted to tell them he was fine. 

 

 _Dammit._ he just wanted to fucking talk! 

 

“Mark?” Tom’s voice was so small. But that was wrong. Tom had always been the big brother, he’d never sounded so small, so afraid. The sound made apprehension swirl in his gut. “Mark it’s okay,” Mark shook his head, more tears falling on the sides of his face. It wasn’t. It wasn’t because they _knew_. 

 

“Mark,” the doctor said, placing his hand on Mark’s shoulder. Mark jerked, wide eyes flying to his face, then back down to the hand. Despite this, the doctor didn’t move his hand. “It’s me, Mark, it’s Dr. Sauren. I’m not going to hurt you.” Mark managed to relax slightly, but his breathing was even faster, even though it felt like it didn't exist at all. 

 

Mark managed another nod, still unable to form words. 

 

“You need to take a deep breath, Mark,” he said. Mark shook his head again, more helpless tears forming. _I can’t._ “You can do it, Mark,” the doctor said. “You need to try.” For a minute Mark was only able to take short stuttered breaths, but as the doctor began to breathe audibly deeper, Mark’s breathing began to match it. 

 

After a few agonizing minutes of this, Mark’s heart had almost stopped pounding, and he could properly breathe again. He swallowed hard and looked down, unable to meet the doctor’s eyes.

 

“Thank you,” he muttered. The doctor silently exited the room, leaving Mark and his family alone. For a moment there was a stark silence, until finally Mark looked at them. 

 

“Mom.” he said, voice breaking. “Dee. Tom.” It wasn’t until now that the pain of missing them hit him hard. He held open his arms weakly, needing to comfort them, needing to be comforted. Dee and Mrs. Fischbach practically fell into his arms, while Tom sat on the edge of his bed, by his legs. 

 

It almost felt like he was home again. ‘

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Wednesday March 16, 9:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie was in her office, watching Marster’s out of the corner of her eye, while she sifted through the photos of him on her laptop. She had photos of him walking in and out of that warehouse, sometimes with blood on him, sometimes wearing gloves, sometimes normal looking. If this wasn’t enough to incriminate him, then she would quit her job. Still, she wanted more evidence before she made the arrest. She wanted to make absolutely sure she couldn’t be ignored. Going against the chief of police was dangerous, and hard. More people would back him than her, but she was ready for that. If she collected enough evidence no one could say she was wrong. No one could defend him if the evidence was unforgiving. 

 

She looked up, just as Marster exited his office. She watched him carefully as he made his way over to hers. She shut her laptop just as he was opening her door. She carefully placed it on her desk, trying not to appear conspicuous. 

 

“Chief,” she said, painting a smile on her face. “Is there a break in the Johnson case?” Marster shook his head, giving Carrie an almost savage look. She met his gaze with a steely one of her own, suppressing the shudder that threatened to expose her. “What is it?” she asked feigning innocence.

 

“I told you to drop it.” he said threateningly. Carrie stood, putting her hands on her hips. 

 

“Drop what?” she said through gritted teeth. Marster’s look was deadly.

 

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he said closing the door behind him so as not to be overheard. Carrie swallowed but stood her ground. 

 

“What noticed that I’m a good detective? Or that you’re a murdering scumbag?” The jig was up. Marster knew. _News flash, douchebag, so do I._

 

“You bitch,” he growled lowly. 

 

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” she retaliated, voice equally as dangerous. One hand was already resting on her firearm in its holster. If he made one move, nothing was going to stop her from putting a round in his chest. Not even the eyes of every cop in the building. 

 

“You’re a good cop, Stevens,” he said, audibly trying to even his voice. “Don’t throw your life away now.” Carrie growled, fingers tightening in their respective spots.

 

“Are you threatening me?” she asked, shoulders tense.

 

“Are you going to keep pursuing this?” Marster asked, right back. Carrie pursed her lips, fingers curling over the butt of the gun. 

 

“Always,” she said defiantly. Marster shook his head. 

 

“I did like working with you, Carrie,” he said, before turning and walking out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to make sure I got the tension with Marster and Carrie perfect. I still feel like the scene between them was too short though :/


	19. Flatline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie has a choice, James doesn't. Mark has a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys~! I hope you like this chapter! I'm not sure if it's a little longer than usual or not, but I hope the length in either case doesn't bother you. Enjoy!

 

Thursday March 17, 1:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie was sleeping peacefully when the sound of her phone woke her up. She rolled over groaning, hands searching for the body that was usually next to her; warm, and kind, and inviting. After a few moments of her hands thoughtless roaming, she stopped. As she fully awoke, she opened her eyes to see that her husband wasn’t in bed with her.

 

Frowning, she listened for sounds of him, but she heard nothing in the stillness of the room. No sounds coming from the bathroom, none from the kitchen.

 

“James?” she called softly. The darkness of the room was broken only by the soft beams of moonlight slipping from her window and onto the floor. She got no reply. 

 

She shook herself awake, realizing that her phone was still ringing, and that was what had woken her up in the first place. She grabbed at it. James was calling her? This early in the morning? 

 

 _Why isn’t he here?_ She accepted the call, then waited. Something deep in her mind told her not to talk, just wait. There was a few beats. The only sounds were slight breathing and occasional shuffling. 

 

“I know you’re there, Stevens.” The sound of Marster’s voice shook any lingering affects of sleep away. Another few beats of silence. Carrie was slow to process. Maybe it was the hour, or having just woken up. Maybe it was because she was terrified. 

 

Suddenly, as if a flip had been switched, a panicked fury rose in her. Her heart beat faster, her blood pumped hotter in her veins.

 

“ _You son of a bitch_.” she growled into the phone. She had to be careful not to yell, she didn’t want to wake up Alex. There was a light chuckle over the other end. 

 

“Should I just kill him then?” Carrie tensed, fingers clenching.

 

“I’ll fucking kill you, _Lawrence_. Don’t think that I’ll be afraid to pull the trigger because you’re the chief of police. _I’ll fucking put you in the ground_.” Marster sighed into the phone. 

 

“Carrie, I’m simply doing what I must.” Carrie took a deep breath in. 

 

“What time?” she asked. She knew how these things went. Marster wanted her to meet him to save her husband, then he would kill her. _I won’t give him the fucking chance_. Marster chuckled once more. 

 

“Eager are we?” he asked. “Now,” he said, tone turning serious. “is a good time.” 

 

“Where?” Carrie asked, clipped. She rose from her bed, immediately going for her guns. She was going to be taking more than one with her, if she was walking right into a trap. But not going was not an option. She would get James back. What was she going to do about Alex? She couldn’t bring him with her. She couldn’t leave him here alone. Not if Marster knew where she lived (and he did). 

 

“You can’t figure it out?” he snarked, and Carrie’s blood boiled hotter. “Check your surveillance pictures.” Carrie hung up the phone immediately, pulling on clothes, and strapping a smaller gun under her pants sleeve to conceal it. She put another behind her, held by her pants. She held her registered SigSauer in her hands. Just as she was about to pull out she called Jack. 

 

“Hello?” he answered groggily after a few agonizing seconds. Carrie trusted him more than anyone at the station. 

 

“Sorry to wake you, Jack, but I need a favor.” Jack grunted, and Carrie could hear the shifting of sheets and blankets. 

 

“What is it?” he sounded a little more a wake. 

 

“Something’s come up. I need you to watch Alex.” She bit her lip. She couldn’t afford for him to say no. 

 

“Um…?” Carrie rolled her eyes, tapping her foot urgently. 

 

“I need you, really bad, _now_ , Jack, please?” Jack sighed into the phone.

 

“Do I get to ask why?”

 

“Not until I can come up with a good response.” Jack nodded again.

 

“What’s going on Care?” he asked. Carrie took a steadying breath in.

 

“Something’s happened with James. I need to make sure he's okay.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She didn’t want Jack to get caught in the middle. He was good at his job, but Carrie always thought he’d make a better detective then forensics tech. She knew he’d try to help. 

 

“Give me five minutes.” Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. She waited in the driveway until Jack pulled up, then she peeled out. 

 

Upon arriving at the warehouse, Carrie didn’t see Marster’s car. That didn’t mean he wasn’t in the building. Holding her Sig out in front of her, she cautiously entered the building. 

 

The whole room smelled like bleach and cleaning supplies. The smell made her nose burn. Someone had wiped this whole thing down. It was definitely the room they had kept their prisoners. She recognized it from the feed.

 

At first she saw and heard no one. Then a very muffled cry alerted her of their presence. Creeping towards a dirty-looking door at the back of the room, Carrie felt her rage mix with fear. What would she do without James? She shook the feelings out, focusing hard on her anger. If she was afraid she would screw this up, but if she was angry? She knew she wouldn’t be _able_ to miss. 

 

She carefully pushed open the door, but the sound was loud as it scraped across the floor. Inside, Marster held James at gunpoint. He sat on a metal chair in the center of the room. Just next to him were the chains that had held Mark Fischbach. Carrie wrinkled her nose. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and Carrie remembered the two kids. 

 

“You sick bastard.” she spit at Marster.

 

“C-Carrie?” James muttered, and Carrie’s heart broke. James was just a bartender, he didn’t know how to deal with this stuff. Not really. There was a gash on his forehead that was slightly bleeding, but as Carrie raked her eyes over him, she saw no other injuries. It was relieving, to say the least.

 

“James,” Carrie said solidly. “I’m right here, you’re going to be fine.”

 

“Carrie, he’s…I’m not, am I?” James eyes darted from the gun, to Marster’s face, then back to Carrie. His eyes were wide, and there were tears gathering in them. “I don’t wanna die, Care.” Carrie took a breath in, tears gathering in her own eyes.

 

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, James. I _promise_.” Marster groaned, and the sound of a cocked gun made chills run down Carrie’s spine.

 

“Hey, Detective Stevens, how nice of you to show up.” he said with a quirk of his lips. Carrie growled, hands tightening instinctively on the sig. 

 

“Fuck you,” she said widening her stance. She was ready to take him the fuck _out_. Marster chuckled condescendingly, and Carrie had to force a deep breath through her nose. 

 

“Careful, Care, don’t pop a vein.” Carrie’s finger moved towards the trigger, and Marster clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t do that.” He pressed the barrel of the gun flush to James head. James flinched back, closing his eyes. His breathing was shallow. A tear fell down his face, and a startled gasp fell from his lips. Carrie’s heart stuttered.

 

“James, look at me,” Carrie’s voice was on the edge of panic. James moved his head slightly in a light shake. His eyes remained screwed shut. “Please, James.” James finally opened his eyes, meeting hers. The tears swimming there, the fear, made Carrie’s heart clench.

 

“Tell Alex—” Carrie’s eyes widened, and her tears feel as well. A breath expelled itself from her body as if she was releasing a ghost.

 

“No,” her voice broke, but she steeled herself and corrected it. “No.” Much better. “You can tell Alex yourself, do you hear me?” James took in a shuddering breath. 

 

“I-I don’t think he’ll…” James closed his eyes again, unable to finish the thought. Marster sighed.

 

“Look,” he said, and James jumped at the mere sound of his voice. Carrie never wanted to strangle someone so much in her life. Never wanted to see so much blood pool around someone. The rage was undeniable. “I hate to break up this touching moment, but one of you is going to die here today, so can we get on with it?” 

 

“I’m not going to let you break apart my family.” Carrie’s voice was steely. 

 

“Oh,” If Marster’s voice got anymore smug, Carrie really was going to kill him. “I’m sorry, did you think you had a choice in the matter?” he paused, then gave James a quick glance. A smile curled on his face. “I can’t let you keep investigating this. I have sway at the station, but people there _really_ trust you. If you keep digging, they’ll believe you over me, and I can’t have that.” 

 

“Carrie,” James said, shifting. “you have to run.” Marster chuckled like it was all a big joke. Carrie shook her head, cold eyes stuck on her boss. 

 

“I’m not leaving you here, James. It’s been fifteen years now, you really think I’m gonna just let you die?” James shook his head.

 

“We’ve only been married six…” he muttered the ghost of a smile on his face.

 

“Doesn’t matter, I knew I loved you at three.” James let out a small laugh.

 

“Only three?” Carrie shrugged, watching Marster’s face carefully. The banter was making her feel better, more confident.

 

“College was distracting.” She watched as the irritation flickered across Marster’s face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said through gritted teeth. “I wasn’t aware that this was a reminiscing party, I thought I was here to _kill_ your _husband_.” His arm jerked back, and he pistol-whipped James. James cried out, falling from the chair. He got to his feet as quickly as he could. Carrie went for him, but Marster trained his gun on her. 

 

“Fine,” she muttered. “you want to kill someone? Kill me.” James made a noise in the back of his throat, stepping towards her, eyes wide and panicked. Carrie shook her head at him. He stopped, but his hands were shaking, and he shook his head right back. 

 

“Touching,” Marster said. “really, but then I’d have a witness. Really, I need to kill both of you.” 

 

“No,” Carrie said, tense. “because James won’t tell anyone.” James made an indignant sound. His eyes held his fear, but also his anger, as they swung towards Marster.

 

“Of course I wil—” Carrie coughed pointedly. 

 

“Don’t orphan our son, James.” she said softly. James’ eyes widened, and he nodded.

 

“He won’t tell anyone,” Carrie said, nodding confidently. Marster scoffed, then chuckled, then he full on laughed. Carrie felt hatred burn so deep. She wanted to rip his heart out.

 

“That’s too bad, because I’m gonna kill him anyway.” Carrie let go of her thoughts of James, for just a moment. She stopped thinking like a wife, and relied on her instincts. Just as Marster turned to shoot James, she pulled the trigger. Marster fell, the hole in his forehead leaking. Blood had spattered the back wall behind him. 

 

James took a step back, blinking owlishly. “Carrie?” he asked. His voice broke, and Carrie practically lunged for him. Her hands roamed over his body, and his patted over hers.

 

“Are you okay?” they asked simultaneously. 

 

“Am I okay?” Carrie asked incredulously. “I wasn’t the one who got pistol-whipped!” She reached up to touch at the wound on his head and he winced, flinching. “Jesus, James,” Carrie said, expelling a breath. “I thought I was gonna lose you.” James shook his head swallowing.

 

“Me?” he asked. “I wasn’t the one who offered myself up on a silver platter!” his voice was shaky, and Carrie ran her hands gently through his hair. “What were you thinking?” James was crying harder now, staring intently into her eyes.

 

“I couldn’t lose you,” Carrie said softly, pulling him in for an adrenaline filled kiss.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 17, 1:30 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Mark was sleeping at least semi-peacefully when he was roused by a noise. The ruffle of scrubs, that he had become accustomed to, and something else. Heavy boots that had no place in a hospital. Mark cracked a hesitant eye open, and saw the dark figure just inside his hospital room. It was a large man, a little taller than Mark. He opened his eyes fully.

 

“Ken?” he asked, beginning to push himself into a sitting position. The man took a few steps forward, and Mark knew something was off. If it was Ken, he would’ve said something by now. The man was holding a syringe in his hand, and Mark felt his heartbeat spike before he heard it on the monitor. When the man got closer, Mark could see his scrubs, but something still felt off.

 

The man wore a surgical mask, but as he stepped even closer, Mark could see his eyes. They looked so familiar. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice clipped with panic, as the man poked the needle of the syringe into his IV drip. He watched as the liquid rushed through the tube and into his arm. The man didn’t answer him. “What are you doing?” he asked again. His breathing was short, and his chest was tight again. Finally the man pulled off his mask. Mark took a deep breath in, thrashing in an effort to get out of his bed. But he was tangled in the blankets, and the man was quicker to move. 

 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” ‘Military’ asked, smiling viscously down at Mark as he held him to the bed. Mark was squirming, writhing. He opened his mouth to scream, but ‘Military’ threw a hand over his lips. Mark looked up at him with terrified eyes. “What I gave you should kill you in about…a couple minutes?”

 

Mark was already beginning to feel drowsy. The panic was still there, but he could hear his heartbeat slowing down. His breathing evened out. For a moment a perfect calm settled over him, and he looked up at one of his captors with half-lidded, dazed eyes. 

 

That is, until his lungs began to stutter, and flutter, and seize. He suddenly couldn’t breathe properly. He convulsed on the bed, struggling for air, as ‘Military’ held him down. 

 

Then Mark flatlined. The man who had killed him managed to slip out the door without being noticed by any of the doctors and nurses rushing into Mark’s hospital room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus I felt so bad writing this. Poor James, poor Carrie, poor Mark. Ugh, I'm so evil. I love it, I hate it, it's a gift, it's a curse. Just kidding, I love it xD Anyway, how was it? Do you think the tension between Carrie and Marster was too little? I feel like I'm not representing it enough...


	20. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark wakes up, Ken is good with trauma, Jack defends Mark's credibility. Carrie is relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one took a little bit, didn't it? Dang...Sorry about the long wait, everyone!
> 
> Enjoy~!

 Thursday March 17, 6:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Felix had his head in his hands, eyes red-rimmed as he breathed deeply. He was trying to stave off nausea, which had become a common occurrence since this whole thing started. He knew Mark was fine, he _knew_ , but the tremors wouldn't stop. Mark could’ve died, _again_. The doctors had said they weren’t sure what had happened, but wasn’t it their’ job to know? What could have possibly caused Mark to die for _five minutes_?

 

Tom and the moms were in Mark’s room, while Seán was in the bathroom. Felix assumed he was just trying to keep it together. Probably crying. Signe was with him. Aaron sat across from him, Ken next to him. Arin, Danny, Matthias, Matt, and Ryan M. had gone back to Mark’s house to calm down. Bob and Tyler were leaning against the wall beside Ken and Aaron, looking exhausted. Wade and Ethan were sitting on the floor beside Felix, leaning their heads agains the wall. 

 

Marzia was next to Felix, her hand rubbing soothing circles into his back. Ryan sat on Felix’s other side. 

 

Everyone was still trying to wrap their minds around what had happened. Felix knew little about medicine, but he knew there had to be _something_. Nobody just _dies_ , nobody’s heart just _stops_ , there’s always a cause.

 

The doctor walked into the room, holding a clipboard. He was wearing a white lab coat over blue scrubs. _A walking cliche._ Felix thought. Everyone’s attention was turned on him, and Felix almost felt bad for him. 

 

"Your friend, Mark, he’s _fine_.” the doctor stressed, holding a hand up to stop any early questions or accusations. “However, we still don’t know the cause of the occurrence.”

 

“How do you not know?” Felix asked, before he could stop himself. Ryan put a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. 

 

“Well,” the doctor began. “we’re running as many tests as we can. Blood, mostly, but nothing is guaranteed to be completely conclusive.” Felix shook his head. What did that even mean? 

 

“So you have no idea?” he asked. He knew it was _fine_ , everything was _fine_ now. But…Mark had just gotten back. He’d just survived something horrible, and now this? The doctor almost looked guilty.

  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kjell—” Felix shook his head, cutting him off.

 

“No, I’m sorry, Dr. Sauren. I know it’s not your fault, I just…” he sighed, cringing out how ridiculous he sounded. “I think we all want to know he’ll be okay.” Dr. Sauren nodded kindly. Felix cast a glance around the room. Everyone was either giving a slight nod or looking at the ground. Felix buried his head in his hands again. He wanted this nightmare to be _over_.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 17, 10:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie’s grin was well-concealed behind a grim expression, as she handed over the last of the documents to Internal Affairs. She had finished filling out the paperwork, had given her statement, and listened to James give his. She was finally, _finally_ free of the pressure of the case that had been haunting her for four years. It was _over_. All that was left to do was catch and arrest anyone left involved, but that was just a little legwork, and she didn’t even _have_ to give her two cents to that situation. She would, of course, but the fact that there was no one left to chase, _not really_ was the most relieving thing in all seven years of Carrie’s career. 

 

After she had handed over all the files, Carrie shut her office door, and walked from the building, James’ hand around her waist. She was taking some much needed time with her family.

 

As they walked out eyes followed them. Carrie wasn’t sure who was angry and who was pleased, but at the moment she couldn’t really care. Everything was fucking _perfect_ , so whoever was angry be _damned_.

 

Carrie laid a hand on James’ chest, leaning against him. She looked down at his shirt. She noted that he had a drop of blood on it. 

 

“James?” she asked, softly. James looked down at her as they went through the doors.

 

“Yeah?

 

“Marster didn’t really hurt you, did he?” she bit her lip, her heart fluttering at the thought. 

 

“I mean, he smacked me in the face with his scary-ass gun, but that’s about it, why?” Carrie sighed. 

 

“You’re shirt, it has blood on it. Are you sure? You’re not keeping an injury from me? To keep me from worrying?” James shook his head.

 

“No,” he said. “It must have dripped from my head after he hit me. Or it was from when you…” James shifted awkwardly as they walked to the car. “When you, uh, shot him…” Carrie almost laughed.

 

“It’s been seven years, James, and you’re still not used to a cop wife?” James shrugged. 

 

“You know how that stuff makes me feel. I almost threw up right there.” Carrie smiled as she tucked her face into his side. 

 

“Baby,” she muttered laughing. 

 

“Hey, I’m not a baby, I’m just as manly as you are.” They were both laughing by the time they got to the car. Things were finally looking up. Marster was gone, and her family was _safe_.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 17, 2:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

Mark didn’t want to open his eyes. He really, _really_ didn’t want to open his eyes. He remembered ‘Military’. One of the men who had taken him, he had been there. At the hospital. 

 

Mark knew that if he opened his eyes, he would be right back in that room. ‘Military’ had kidnapped him. The man with the blue eyes had taken him. _Again._ He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t face reality. 

 

He was sure that if he acknowledged his situation, he would have a heart attack and die. He couldn’t face the man again. Maybe his cronies, _maybe_. But the man with the blue eyes? Forget it. Mark barely survived his first encounter. But Mark was terrified of the man. He’d taken _everything_ from him, how could he not be? 

 

Every time he closed his eyes the man was there. 

 

Mark heard a shuffle by his side, and shivered. His eyes scrunched shut tighter, and his fingers dug into the sheet. He bit at his tongue to keep from whimpering. The movement didn’t stop, and Mark wanted to cry. _Leave me alone_ , he thought helplessly. _Please, leave me alone._  

 

Mark jumped drastically when a hand snuck under the blanket to grasp at his. His eyes flew open in a panic, and he wrenched his hand free.

 

“Mark?” The Irish accent stole his attention far faster than it should have, and his head whipped around to find it, to latch onto it. 

 

“Jack?” His heart was still pounding too fast, but if his friend was here, than surely the man with the blue eyes wasn’t.Unless…. _Oh god…._ Mark felt cold sickness spread under his skin. 

 

“Mark, are you with us right now?” Mark turned his head again to follow the southern accent. 

 

“ _Ken?_ ” Did the man with the blue eyes…kidnap all his friends? _But that’s not…_

 

Belatedly, Mark heard the sound of the heart monitor, beeping rapidly beside him. He felt the sheets under his hand, and the crisp white blanket draped lightly over him. _Wait…Wait, I’m…still in the hospital?_ Was this a dream? 

 

Mark was still just a touch panicked as he reached out to feel for the man by his bedside. 

 

“Mark, are you…?” Ken hesitated. “Do you feel safe right now? Do you know where you are?” Mark barely processed the question. It should have been simple, but it wasn’t. Do you know where you are? _Maybe._ Do you feel safe? _No._ But Mark nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. 

 

Tears threatened to spill over his cheeks, but he blinked them back, feeling ashamed of himself. 

 

“The man…” Mark rasped instead, bottom lip quivering. “Where did he go?” 

 

“The man?” Jack asked, uncertain. His voice wobbled a little, but Mark barely noticed. He nodded slowly instead. He felt like he was underwater, words entering his ears garbled. 

 

“He was here, he gave me something…” Mark’s voice edged on terror. 

 

“Gave you something?” Jack asked. Mark shuddered.

 

“Needle.” he said. “He was one of _them_.” 

 

“Mark,” Ken began, allowing Mark to tether himself to reality by grasping onto his arm. Ken didn’t mind if it kept his friend sane and present. “I think you just had a nightmare.” Mark caught the tell-tale signs of being treated like a child. He wanted to scold Ken for it, but found he couldn’t. 

 

His mind raced with the idea, and his heartbeat steadily rose, until he stamped down on his tongue with his teeth. He shook his head. _Not a dream. A nightmare, but it was real,_ stuck to the forefront of his mind, but just beyond — _Please stop treating me like I’m fragile._ And somewhere just beyond _that_ , in a hidden place untouched by trauma, Mark was thinking that Ken was kind of sounding condescending; by extension, a dick.

 

But this area was untapped and far away. Any anger or indignation that Mark was aware of he couldn’t hold. He was too exhausted, he was too afraid. He was too a lot of things. 

 

Despite this internal struggle, and Ken’s reassurance that it was a nightmare, Jack was closer to Mark now, looking at him with worried curiosity. Mark’s confused mind was stuck between being relieved to be around friends, around _familiar_ , and by the fear of having another person so close to him. 

 

“Maybe…” Jack sounded troubled, even to Mark’s distorted ears. Jack shot Ken a look as if Mark was a child to be spoken over. _Please stop acting like I’m made of glass. I’m not going to break, I’m not —_ The train of thought was cut off by the immediate realization that Mark _was_ broken. He was broken. 

 

“Maybe what, Jack?” Ken’s voice sounded even more far away and distorted as Mark got pulled into his own head. _Broken_. The word was heavy in his mind, like lead sitting on the bottom of his skull. _Broken?_  

 

“What if…It wasn’t a nightmare?” Jack paused, looking queasy and unsure. In the back of his mind, it worried Mark how much he didn’t care to notice why. He was still ensnared in his destructive thoughts. “I mean,” he lowered his voice a little. “his…his heart _stopped_. What could have caused that?” Mark vaguely saw Ken shake his head.

 

“With what he’s been through, Jack…It would be more likely than some guys sneaking into his hospital room, don’t you think?” Jack sighed audibly.

 

“So, what, you just… don’t believe him?” 

 

“No, it’s not like that—but if he is afraid, wouldn’t it be better to make him feel safe?” 

 

“Not if what he’s saying might have actual merit, Ken!” Jack lowered his voice again. “I’m not saying it’s the most probable thing, but if I were in his position I would want to feel like my thoughts were valid. Not brushed aside.” 

 

“I’m not brushing anything aside!”

 

“Than what stopped his heart, Ken?!” 

 

Still Mark was caught up in his own thoughts. He couldn’t articulate his feelings enough to say them to his friends, and now they were yelling over him, _about_ him. The yelling put his nerves on edge, and goosebumps rose on his skin. If he could just _say something_. He couldn’t get himself out of his head enough to tell them what happened. He couldn't communicate effectively anymore. Mark was getting frustrated. Frustrated with being afraid, or jumpy. Frustrated with being abnormally inarticulate. Frustrated with being broken.

 

They were speaking as if he wasn’t even there, and Mark couldn’t even give his two cents. He couldn’t tell them that the man had been there. That Mark was _still in danger._  

Mark was... 

Ice traveled through Mark’s veins starting from his fingers down. His heart pumped thick frozen fear as the realization dawned on him. _He’s gonna come back._ Mark didn’t notice when Jack stepped even a little closer, but he threw himself into the wall behind him when a hand came down on his shin. The bed bounced under his weight, and he felt unstable.

 

He almost screeched, fingers clasping at his drawn knees to protect himself. His breath caught in his throat, and tears were swimming in his eyes again. He tried to focus on the people in front of them but couldn’t. They seemed _dangerous_ to him all of a sudden. He bit at his lip, because if he screamed, they would win. _Again._

 

 _Fuck_. Mark didn’t want to deal with it again. Couldn’t. His eyes focused and unfocused, and someone was talking to him. _Fuck_ , what were they saying?

 

“…ark, _Mark_!” someone…with an accent? _Ken? Jack?_ Mark forced himself to remember. To calm. _Ken and Jack are here._ He tried to calm his breathing, his blood, but everything was moving too fast. His pulse continued to race, and Mark suddenly felt very dizzy. Like the effort of calming down was too much. 

 

“W-what’s…?” Mark muttered, feeling at his own throat for his too-fast pulse. His head pounded. “I don’t…” his vision was past blurry, and sweat was forming on his forehead. Nothing like this had ever happened without a cause. This level of fear (except for when he was with _him_ ) never just appeared. Not once in his life. He didn’t know what was happening. “Jack?” he groaned desperately, though he was still curled in on himself protectively. “Ken?” 

 

He couldn’t see, and this caused a new wave of panic. His breathing picked up more speed. Mark was pretty sure he was hyperventilating. 

 

“Right here, Mark,” Jack said, but didn’t touch him this time. But Mark still couldn’t _see_ them. The tears spilled over his eyes, as he pushed himself further into the wall. “We’re both right here.” 

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Mark asked, fingers unconsciously moving up his forearms to scratch at the skin there. The sting somewhat helped tether him back to reality, but the panic didn’t subside. “What’s happening?”  Mark vaguely thought he heard Ken calling a doctor, but he wasn’t sure. 

 

It seemed like hours passed before someone spoke to Mark again. Mark didn’t move from his spot, if not cowering further into himself. 

 

“Mark?” Dr. Sauren said. His voice filled the room, and Mark’s fingers left their positions on his arms, shoulders un-tensing slightly. Mark couldn’t find his voice. He nodded. “Mark, do you know where you are?” Another nod. “Good, Mark, that’s good.” 

 

There was a tense pause. 

 

“Mark?” Mark sniffled, trying to quell the tears, suddenly embarrassed. He nodded once more. “Do you know what’s happening? Do you understand why you are reacting this way?” Mark thought hard, panic slicing back through his bones when he came up with no answer. He shook his head frantically. He tried to find his voice.

 

“I-I don’t.” Mark could feel the doctor enter his space, and tensed again. 

 

“You’re having a panic attack, Mark.” the doctor said. He paused to let Mark process before continuing on. “I know it’s hard, and I know it’s scary, but you’re gonna be okay. It’s a panic attack, that’s all.” Mark started to nod, then shook his head. _Wrong,_ his mind was telling him. _You had a panic attack remember? This is different. Something’s wrong with you._

 

“B-but I’ve…” Mark couldn’t finish the thought. 

 

“Yes, Mark,” the doctor said. “you have, that’s true. This one is a really bad one, though, Mark. It’s different only because it’s more extreme.” Mark nodded slowly, understanding. There was a pause in the conversation, but Dr. Sauren was whispering something. Mark bit onto his lip, chewing nervously at the messed up skin there.

 

“Mark?” Ken asked. Mark nodded. “Can I touch you? Is it okay if I lay my hand on your chest?” Mark could feel the pressure of hands on him, on his body. The weight of electrodes sticking to his skin. The chill of water, and the sting of open wounds. He took a deep breath, and nodded. He trusted Ken. He did. 

 

Ken gently placed his hand just above Mark’s heart. 

 

“Can I touch your hand?” he asked. Mark was hyperventilating again, muscles under Ken’s hand so tense it ached there. The feel of his hand over his clothes terrified him. Not the fact that his hand was _there,_ but the feel of it made his heart stutter and go cold.

 

Still he nodded. He didn’t know what was happening but he _trusted Ken_ , or at the very least, he really really wanted to again. Ken took his hand, and Mark’s fingers twitched, the clenched. Ken placed his half open palm to his own chest. 

 

“K-ken?” Mark asked, unsure. Confused. 

 

“Do you feel that, Mark?” Ken asked. _His heartbeat,_ Mark’s mind clarified for him. _You can feel his heartbeat._ “Can you try to match it, Mark? Or my breathing? Can you focus enough? It’s okay if you can’t.” 

 

Gradually, with little movement in the room, Mark was able to calm. His heart steadied, and his breathing did as well. His vision returned normally, and he managed to unfurl himself. He settled himself back in the blanket, and removed his hand from Ken’s chest. 

 

He hadn’t noticed that the doctor had left. His eyes found Jack’s, then Ken’s. Tears filled his eyes, and he looked down. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I don’t…I didn’t mean to—” But Jack cut him off.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Mark looked up at him in surprise.

 

“But, Ken—” Ken cut him off next.

 

“I didn’t mind, Mark. It’s fine. I’m just glad you feel better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, you think Mark'll be okay? (For the record, no shipping of Mark with anyone except Amy, not Ken, not Jack, not Felix. Just in case that's what it looks like). How'd you guys like it? Does it help with the panic from the last chapter?


	21. Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is still recovering, but at least he's safe. Carrie is relieved, mostly. Everyone else is worried sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I am a terrible person. I'm so sorry for not updating~ ;~; I feel so bad, I feel like it's been forever. Sorry. School has been crazy, and I've just been killing myself trying to get everything done. 
> 
> Anyways! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Friday March 18, 10:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

After a few hours following waking up, Mark felt lucid enough to tell someone, in a non-panicked manner, about the man that had tried to kill him. He’d asked for Jack (because he seemed the most likely to believe him), and Amy to see him in his room. 

 

Jack stayed near the door while Amy ran to him. She practically flew into his arms, but Mark wasn’t complaining. 

 

She was cleaner than the last time he’d seen her. Neater. A few cuts littered her arms, and a bruise was light on her cheek, but other than that she looked exactly the same as _before_. Her hair had the same coconut smell, and he could smell the hint of Starbucks dark roast. She smelled like _home_. Mark’s ribs ached harshly under the pressure, but he kept hugging her, pulling her tight to him. 

 

“Amy.” he breathed. Tears welled in his eyes. “You're okay.”  He had assumed, but he never really knew. She wasn’t in the room when he escaped. He hadn’t known. And though he’d seen her since then, this was the first time they really got to do this. The first time they had the chance to be relieved and lost in each other’s arms. And now it gave Mark’s addled brain to catch up to the fact that Amy was _alive_ and _safe_. 

 

“I love you, Mark.” she responded. Mark could hear she was about to cry as well. “God, I love you so much.”

 

Finally, too soon in Mark’s opinion, Amy pulled away. Sensing that they had reconnected, Jack stepped in, next to Amy. 

 

“Are you feeling better?” he asked Mark. Mark nodded.

 

“I…yeah. I am, but…” he paused. He closed his eyes and prayed Jack and 

Amy would let him finish without talking. He didn’t want them to ask about _something else_ , when he was trying to tell them about ‘Military’. “I wanted to tell you guys something.” his voice cracked and he thought of Ken’s words. “And you’re not going to at first, but _please_ believe me.” He couldn’t deal with it alone, not again. 

 

He couldn’t pretend like he was healing when he knew the man would come back for him. When he was still in danger of being dragged back to that place. 

 

“What is it?” Jack finally whispered. His voice was small and cracked in places. Mark had a feeling Jack was thinking about the video. Mark cringed, but forced deep breaths.

 

“It’s, um…” he paused, uncertain of himself. “do you remember yesterday?” he cringed again. _How would he forget about it, dumbass?_ he scolded himself. “I mean, uh, when I mentioned a man?” Amy tensed, and Mark felt nauseous all of a sudden. Jack nodded, looking weary. 

 

“Yes, Mark, I remember.” Mark nodded back, sucking in another breath. 

 

“Well…He _was_ here.” Jack looked like he was going to say something, but Mark lifted a trembling hand to stop him. “He _was_ , Jack. I don't know his name, but I know he came from the military, like my…” he stopped. _Like my dad…_ At first the thought was harmless. He could think about his dad without being terribly upset, after all this time. He’d learned to live with the loss, he’d moved on as best he could. But it struck a chord in him now, at the moment when he was weakest. _What would he think of me now?_ Words piled up in his head like bricks. _Weak. Pathetic. Useless._

 

Amy put her hand on his arm like she knew exactly what he was thinking. He flinched, then leaned into the touch. Her support made all the difference. He cleared his throat and tried again, ignoring the words bouncing around his head.

 

“He came into my room, I don’t know when, but he gave me… _something_ , I don’t know what.” Mark’s eyes widened in realization. “U-um, Jack?” he asked, breath coming out faster. 

 

“What,” Jack asked, looking panicked at Mark’s reaction.

 

“Did someone say yesterday that my heart stopped?” Jack cast him a confused look.

 

“Yeah. Dr. Sauren didn’t tell you?” Mark felt his panic creeping past his bones and into his blood stream. 

 

“No, I….How long was I…” he paused, biting at his lip. “I _died_?” Jack nodded, swallowing.

 

“Five minutes.” he said solemnly. Mark spluttered, hand moving to clutch at Amy’s arm.

 

“I was _dead_ for _five minutes_?” His heart was beating a little faster than it should have now. “Jesus christ, Jack, he told me he was gonna kill me.” Tears were forming on his eyelashes. “He did,” he looked up at Amy. “He _killed_ me.” 

 

“Not technically,” Amy said, but Mark thought she looked at a loss. 

 

“But if a doctor or nurse hadn’t found me in time…I would be…fuck,” Mark tried to keep coherent, he did, but with every second he was being crushed under the horrible realization more and more. “ _Fucking hell_.” he muttered under his breath. He gripped Amy’s arm harder, as if she could keep him from freaking out, pull him back from _wherever_. “I…shit. _God jesus fuck_.” the word ‘dead’ repeated in his mind. It seemed so strange to him. After having escaped that man…and death still scared him. No that wasn’t it. Could still _reach_ him. It seemed imbalanced. Wrong. Mark didn't even realize he was mumbling expletives repeatedly to himself.

 

“Mark,” Amy said trying to bring him back. Mark heard the strain in her voice and his attention all snapped to her. He looked up at her pinched face, then down to where they were melded together, connecting the dots. He released her arm, looking numbly at the red marks his fingers had left.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, still lost. Did he do that? The thought of death was too heavy for him. His mind was still fumbling to make sense of the situation.

“So there was really someone here then?” Jack asked, unsure. “It wasn’t a nightmare?”

 

“It _wasn’t_ , Jack,”  

 

“Okay, Mark, I believe you.” Jack pulled out his cell phone, dialing a number. Mark saw that his hands were shaking.

 

“Jack?” Amy asked, a beat before Mark. He waved at them for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip. 

 

“Detective Stevens?” he asked uncertainly in the phone. He nodded, then took in a shaky breath. 

 

“I—yeah, I heard, and that’s great, but can you come down to the hospital?” he muttered almost incoherently. Mark tensed slightly. Jack hung up and turned back towards them. 

 

“I called Detective Stevens. She’s coming right now.” Amy nodded, but Mark watched him curiously, something heavy filling in his chest cavity. 

 

“Detective Stevens…?” Mark asked, voice trembling. “Was she assigned to…?” he broke off, unable to finish. Jack and Amy nodded. 

 

“Yeah, she, she’s coming right now. She’s going to make sure nothing else happens to you.” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry, or scream, or laugh. Of course there was someone assigned to his case. Of course someone was trying to save him and arrest the man with the blue eyes. But Mark hadn’t really realized it before. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday March 18, 11:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie braced herself as she waked through the hospital doors. This was the first victim she’d see alive. She couldn’t overreact in any way, so as not to freak him out. She knew that he must fragile right now, and she didn’t want to worsen his situation. If she fucked this up she’d never forgive herself. He was the _first victim to survive_. She had to conceal her giddiness as she  asked the receptionist for Mr. Fischbach’s room number.

 

He looked better than she had expected, honestly. He was fragile looking, pale, and weak, with a haunted look in his eyes. She was sure he wasn’t the same kid as before, but she thought he’d look…more beat up. Maybe she was expecting him to look like one of the other four victims, only…alive. She reigned in the the emotions warring inside of her. Anger at the men who could do this to people. Pity for the broken man on the hospital bed. Excitement that the man was alive. 

 

The last thing she wanted to do was the hurt the man more than he’d already been by freaking him out with her lack of professionalism. 

 

“Mr. Fischbach?” she asked calmly instead. His eyes turned to her fast and the panic in there died down only after Ms. Peebles put a hand on his arm. He gave her a shaky nod and swallowed. Carrie smiled warmly at him. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” Mr. Fischbach nodded again.

 

“You too,” he said quietly. From what she’d seen from her son’s youtube escapades, ‘Markiplier’ had been loud and outspoken. Confident and exuberant. This man was none of those things.

 

“Detective Stevens?” Sean asked. Carrie turned to him, face slightly more shadowed. 

 

“What is it that you called me here for, Sean?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from getting too grim. Was one of Marster’s lackeys still going after Fischbach? It wasn’t uncommon. Actually, Carrie had expected it, but this soon? 

 

“There was,” Sean paused, casting Fischbach a worried glance, before shifting his gaze back to Carrie. “supposedly,” he said quietly, biting his lip. “a man in Mark’s room the other night. He…he tried to kill him.” Carrie immediately tensed. _Shit_. She was going to have to make sure there was some serious security for this room. 

 

“Are you absolutely certain, Mr. Fischbach?” she asked, directing her attention to the injured man. He bit his lip, then nodded.

 

“They told me my heart stopped for five minutes…” his voice trailed off, and Carrie could see him physically trying to control the heaving of his chest. Pity welled in her, but she squashed it down. This was not the time for that. Carrie knew what pity felt like, and she wouldn’t subject someone to that unless they asked. 

 

“Mr. Fischbach,” she started, but the man immediately interrupted her.

 

“Please call me Mark,” he said, voice strained. Then — “please.” his voice was soft and vulnerable. Carrie nodded at him, swallowing at the emotion in his voice. _Jesus, Marster really did a number on him._  

 

“Mark,” she said, correcting herself. “What do you remember about the incident?” The man before her went white at her question, and pity swelled in her chest. _Poor bastard_ , she thought, not for the first time. Carrie watched him carefully as his mouth opened, then closed. His fingers tightened on his girlfriend’s arm. 

 

“I…uh,” he started, voice wavering. There was a prolonged moment of silence, where Carrie glanced around the room to make sure Seán and Ms. Nelson didn’t break through it. Finally — “Didn’t you _watch_ it?” he choked up at his own words, and tears built in his eyes. Carrie wanted to hug him like she would her own child, but forced the feeling down. 

 

“That is not the point Mr. Fisch—Mark.” she said, correcting herself on the name so as to make him more comfortable. “I want to know what you saw. If there’s anything that’s going to make sure we catch everyone involved.” She thought for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “The man who controlled everything, the man to whom the operation belonged, is dead.” 

 

The thick silence that followed after was heavy, but not as tense as before. Mark’s sharp intake of breath was the only thing that sliced through it. 

 

“W-what?” he asked unsure. Carrie smiled genuinely at him and nodded. Then her face turned grim. 

 

“He threatened a few people I care about, and in a move of self-defense, ended his life.” The tears that had been just barely held back before, made their appearance then. They slid over his cheeks, and he looked unsure whether to be horrified or extremely relieved. Carrie was sure he was feeling both.

 

“Thank you,” he choked out, eyes locking with hers. “Thank you so much.” Carrie tilted her head at him in acknowledgement. 

 

“He will never ever try to hurt you again.” The alternative to those words sat heavy on her tongue, and she had almost said them. _You don’t ever have to be afraid of him again._ But after seven years, there was one thing she had learned from countless victims. No matter how long a man is dead, his victim will still be afraid of him. Will always be _terrified_ that he might one day come back, whether irrational or not. So she kept the words to herself, because she knew it would have made the poor man feel invalid for his feelings. More than he already might feel. 

 

Mark sobbed at her words, and she swallowed. This was the hardest part of her job, always. Not catching bad guys, not sustaining injuries, but having to endure the emotional state of the victims, and the emotional state of the victim’s — and on some cases, the perpetrator’s — family and friends, _and_ remain professional and objective. Though, Carrie had to admit, this was one of the hardest cases in her career to remain objective in. Ms. Nelson leaned down to hold him, and Carrie turned from their moment, not wanting to intrude. 

 

“I’ll contact the station and have police placed outside of your room,” she said, about to walk out the door. She turned as a hand landed on her arm. Her eyes tracked the limb to the person. 

 

“I thought you said that…” Seán paused, biting at his lip nervously. Carrie noted that they were already red and bleeding. “That the police weren’t safe.” He kept his voice low, so as not to scare his friend. 

 

“The person in question,” Carrie sighed. “the person who kidnapped your friend was an officer.” She paused. Giving away sensitive information was looked down upon, a lot. But she felt a connection with these people more than she ever had working a case. “He was my boss.” There was an intake of breath from the young Irish man. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, eyes horrified. Carrie was able to give him a genuine smile.

 

“It’s okay,” she said voice soft. “It’s over now.”  She opened the door to let herself out, and walked from the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh, poor Mark. He's still a little emotionally raw, but he'll be fine...probably. Carrie's happy, huh? Good for her. *Fun Fact~~ Originally I was going to kill her in front of James during the showdown with Marster. Does that make me evil? XD
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it~
> 
> I'll try to update faster (but no promises because I _really_ want to graduate.


	22. Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark gets a visitor, Felix is angry, and the momma bears are worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, mention of dead children (oops)  
> (VERY SLIGHT)Mention of dead Mark and Tom (oops)  
> Protective parents  
> Indignant friends  
> Exasperated doctors  
> And REALLY upset grieving, aggressive mothers.
> 
> Sorry it's been awhile, I know I lost my flow, but I'm working on it. Enjoy!
> 
> PS> Thank you guys so much for sticking with this, you're all incredible. I'm sorry that my schedule s soul-crushing, I really really am, but it'll get better. I promise.

Sunday March 20, 12:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

Mark was somewhere between asleep and awake. That comforting place where you’re just out of reach of both nightmares, and tormented thoughts. He floated like that for a time, though he wasn’t sure how long it was. The sheets were warm, and he was contented. He felt _safe_. His brain was off, but he could still pick out minute sounds and the feel of the pillow under his head. He loved it there. 

 

He was awoken from this floating state by a soft knock on his open hospital door. His whole body jerked, and his heart rate spiked, before calming. He huffed, stretching languidly, mindful of his injuries, before he shifted to a more upright position. He looked outward towards the doorway, preparing a quip to Tom for feeling the need to knock. It wasn’t Tom. It wasn’t Felix, or Aaron, or Ryan, or Cry, or Seán, or _anyone_ he knew.

 

It was a woman, maybe in her forties. She stood at the door, face unreadable. There were drying tears on her splotchy cheeks. Mark tensed, but the woman didn’t look very threatening. He decided to breathe through it. Maybe she was a nurse or doctor he hadn’t met yet? Maybe this was the dietitian Dr. Sauren had wanted him to work with? 

 

She wasn’t in any scrubs…Maybe she was more informal than her job usually allowed? Or maybe she was the mother of a fan and found out he was here? But the tears? Maybe she had a really bad day…?

 

What else could it be?

 

“Hello?” he asked, after clearing his throat. The woman took a step into the room. Her eyes locked onto his and bore into them. There was something familiar about her features.

 

“Are you Mark Fischbach? The youtube personality, Markiplier?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but there was something sharp in it. There was a little red flag in the back of his mind. one that heard the tone from a memory of the man who held him captive. But she mentioned his youtube career, and that was the most comfortable place for him, so he ignored it, and relaxed. 

 

“Yeah,” he nodded, gaining some old confidence back. He mustered up a smile. “Can I help you with something?” The woman took another step towards him, shoulders and back rigid. Mark’s eyebrows scrunched. His stomach did a light nervous flip. “Ma’am?” he asked, forcing the tremble from his voice. _You’re overreacting,_ he thought to himself, frustrated. Her head dropped as if she deflated, but came back up to look at him again. Some emotion flashed across her face as she once over his entire body; it was gone too fast for Mark to make out.

 

“My name is Cassandra Sorben,” she said, and the name froze all movement in Mark’s body. His heart stopped, his blood stilled, his lungs seized. The name was a burning dart to the chest. Sorben. _Sorben_. 

 

The twins. 

 

She took another step forward, and Mark’s lungs stuttered back to life. He hyperventilated as she watched him carefully. 

 

“Sandra and Kyle Sorben were my children.” Mark let out a breathy whimper, blocking the noise with his teeth as he latched onto his cracked bottom lip. 

 

“I-I…” Mark tried to find the words. _I’m sorry? Do you blame me? I_ ** _tried_** _?_ _It was my fault? Are you going to hurt me for it?_ It was the last thought that made Mark’s blood roar in his ears, but he squashed the feeling down. This wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be reacting this way to her. 

 

“D-did you…” the woman paused, tears gathering just beyond her eyelashes. “try?” her voice cracked. “To save them, I mean?” Mark thought back to his dislocated shoulder. Yes, he did try. But did he try hard enough? _No._ He knew that. He chose not to respond, unsure of himself. 

 

In a moment her face went from unsure to indignant and angry.

 

“You bastard!” she snarled, launching for him. Mark let out a strangled cry, holding his arms over his face to protect him, body curling in on itself. He closed his eyes and waited. 

 

When nothing happened, Mark opened one eye, and when he noticed there was no immediate danger, he opened the other. Felix was holding Mrs. Sorben around her waist, keeping her from Mark. His eyes were wide and confused, eyebrows close to his hairline. 

 

“I think you need to leave,” Felix said, voice hard. “Now.” The woman kicked at his shins, and though Felix flinched and winced a few times, his grip didn’t waver. Mark watched for a minute, processing, before his eyes locked on the woman’s again. For a moment they stared at each other. She had tears cascading down her cheeks, and Mark’s eyes teared up at the sight.

 

“No,” Mark muttered softly, guilt curling around his gut. Felix shot him a confused and worried glance.

 

“What?” he asked, voice a higher octave than normal. “You can’t be serious.” Mark noted that Felix’s accent was thicker than he remembered. His heart twinged.

 

“Let her go, Felix.” Felix shook his head baffled, but released his grip. The woman sagged a little, but otherwise did not move. “Shut the door behind you on your way out.” Felix’s eyes couldn’t get any wider. His hand were out in shock, hovering in the air like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. 

 

“You can’t be serious!” he repeated, louder this time. Mark flinched, but didn’t retract his command. 

 

“Please, Felix.” he said softly, and there was a few beats of silence before Felix shot the woman a death glare, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. 

 

“I apologize, Mrs. Sorben, for the interruption.” Mark’s voice shook, and tears were falling down his face faster than he could wipe them away. He felt sick. The woman was still, and it unnerved him. It took a moment for her to speak, and when she did, Mark jumped.

 

“You watched as that man killed my babies.” her voice was low, and full of hatred. “He made Sandy watch as he slaughtered my Kyle.” Mark’s chest grew tighter, and his mind reeled. **_What?_** How did she know that?

 

“H-how did you know that?” he asked, panicked, whole body trembling. 

 

“They posted the…the video. That man, that _beast_ posted it on youtube as if it was some sort of _entertainment_.” Mark’s enter world crumbled. 

 

“V-video?” he asked in a whisper. More tears, more panic. There was a camera there? Where was it? _The whole world knows what happened._ Hurt laced with fear as he struggled to breathe properly. 

 

_All of my fans know I let those kids die. Everyone knows I’m a murderer._

 

He let out a sob as the woman approached him, he wasn’t sure what she was going to do. If she was going to kill him, Mark wasn’t sure he would try to stop her.

 

Mark also wasn’t sure how healthy that was.

 

The woman stopped at his bedside and he looked up at her with terrified eyes. 

 

“Why didn’t you help my kids?” A part of mark’s brain screamed that he did, he _did_ try, but he was chained to the ceiling. He couldn’t do anything. But another part of him, a guilt-ridden part of him thought he didn’t try enough. “Why?” the woman was sobbing too, and Mark couldn’t help but think this would have never happened without him. It was his fault. 

 

“I’m so _so_ sorry,” Mark sobbed, trying to make her understand his guilt. She shook her head. 

 

“Don’t you dare!” she yelled. She balled her hands into fists and thumped them against Mark’s chest. He cried out as his fragile, healing ribs protested vehemently. She seemed to be unable to hear him. “Don’t say you’re sorry, just bring them back.” Mark let out another choked cry. She wasn’t even hitting him very hard, but he was still a long way from being fully healed. 

 

Mark tried to hold back the sounds he was making for as long as possible, knowing that the woman would be arrested, but soon the light pounding on his ribs became too much, and he cried out marginally louder. 

 

Mark heard Felix curse as he entered the room. 

 

“ _Hey_!” Felix yelled as he rushed over, dragging Mrs. Sorben away. “Leave him alone,” he growled in her ear. She sobbed and fought against him, and Mark’s stomach clenched. He knew what that felt like; trying to get away, unable to run. 

 

“Let her go!” he yelled, and then a whine left his mouth. His ribs felt like they had been exposed to the world and set on fire. He wasn’t sure if they were even reconnected anymore. Probably not. How long did it take usually?

 

Felix only released Mrs. Sorben out of surprise. Mark had been loud. Everyone gathered at the door. _Everyone_. His moms, his brother, all of his friends, and his doctor. Mrs. Sorben sunk to the floor, crying. 

 

“What is going on?” The doctor and Mark’s moms asked, simultaneously. The doctor immediately noticed Mark’s struggle to breathe, and his winces, going to his side. “What happened?” he asked him. 

 

“Nothing,” Mark lied, hissing as the doctor prodded at his sides. 

 

“This is not nothing.” Dr. Sauren’s voice was stern, as he lifted Mark’s t-shirt. the bruises were still in various stages of healing, but the doctor seemed to be able to tell that something was wrong. He prodded once more at Mark’s ribs, and he hissed again. He felt around the bones, and Mark groaned, hands beginning to push the doctor’s away. 

 

“I shifted wrong and re-broke a few, I think.” Out of the corner of his eye, Mark could see Mrs. Sorben look at him in surprise. Dr. Sauren scowled at him, but said nothing. Mark was relieved for a moment. He got away with it.

 

Until Felix opened his mouth. 

 

“She attacked him,” he said voice disbelieving. Everyone’s eyes were on Mark then. He knew he couldn’t lie his way through it again. 

 

“I’m not pressing charges!” he blurted out instead. Both of his mothers were across the room and pushing the doctor out of the way in a second. Both of their hands were trembling as they hovered over his body, before resting on his cheek, and his hair, respectively. 

 

“Honey,” Dee said, voice soft. “if she hurt you, then—” But Mark cut her off.

 

“Dee, I can’t.” he said, tears still stinging his eyes. “Her children, she…” Mark couldn’t finish his sentence, choosing to look down, instead of at all of the piercing eyes. Mrs. Fischbach’s eyes widened. 

 

“The twins,” she whispered, and Mark flinched, sucking in a breath. Of course she knew. 

 

“Oh my god,” Dee muttered. There was a heavy beat of silence, save for the sound of sniffling from Mrs. Sorben. 

 

“If it were me and Tom,” Mark started softly. “You would act the same way. She lost her children, Dee. Mom.” there was another pregnant silence. “I won’t press charges.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so...Too much? Poor Mrs. Sorben. We'll be seeing more of her later ;)


	23. Greenie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short little snippet about why there was no officer at Mark's door when Mrs. Sorben confronted him.

Sunday March 20, 3:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

“Where were you?!” Carrie yelled at the young officer. She had been worried something like this would happen. The fact that Cassandra Sorben had been able to get near his room at all was a problem. 

 

“I was—”  but Carrie cut him off. 

 

“You were what, officer Gener?” her voice was more vicious than she meant it to be. 

 

“I just went to get lunch down at the cafeteria!” he defended, hands going up. Carrie pinched the bridge of her nose. She had to remember that she was the young cop once. The rookie who didn’t know left from right. 

 

“Don’t let it happen again,” she muttered. “I’d hate to see you lose your badge over lunch.” 


	24. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is tired, Carrie is happy, and the rest are worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! I'm on a role! Enjoy the chapter! <3 <3 <3

Thursday March 31, 2:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Carrie sighed into James’ chest, sinking into him further as his fingers massaged gently at her back. Alex was sitting on the floor in front of her as she ran her hands through his hair. She was content. More content than she had been in four years. The sinking feeling of dread she had been feeling recently regarding her husband and her son had dissipated. 

 

They were alive, she had slain the villain. The sun was pushing away any clouds in her heart. 

 

There had not been another incident with Mark Fischbach since eleven days ago, and there had been no reports of _anything_ related to the redroom case. 

 

Marster was dead.

 

Her boys were okay. 

 

Everything was _perfect_. 

 

She curled her arms around James’ torso, humming. He looked down at her and caught her eyes. He smiled, and her heart melted even more. 

 

“Alex,” she muttered, fingers pausing in their movement. “Come up here.” Alex came to lay on her side, and she put an arm around him, placing a kiss in his hair.

 

“Mom,” he groaned. “I wanna watch the movie.” Carrie smiled.

 

“Let me have this, Alex. Tomorrow you have to go to school, and your father and I have to work. Let me do this.” Alex sighed exaggeratedly, but curled further into Carrie’s side, hugging her. 

 

Carrie was happy. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 31, 7:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Bob was getting increasingly worried about Mark. He seemed to be withdrawing into himself more and more. It broke his heart every time Mark flinched when someone rose their voice. It had been eleven days since the incident with Cassandra Sorben, and though Mark’s physical injuries were healing, Mark was appearing worse and worse everyday. The changes were subtle, but Bob’s eyes clung to them every time he entered Mark’s hospital room.

 

Bob knew the others were worried, but nobody was willing to talk about it. Especially not Mark. And though Mark said he was fine, whenever asked, Bob could tell he wasn’t.

 

He was concerned for his friend. What could he do to help him?

 

Seán interrupted his ponderings, plopping down in the chair beside him, looking almost as worn out as Bob felt. 

 

“Hey,” he muttered sullenly, leaning down and resting his head in his hands.

 

“Hey, Jack,” Bob muttered back, reaching up to rub at his eyes. “How long do you think it’ll be until he’s out of the hospital?” he asked quietly. Seán let out a long sigh, rubbing hard at his eyes as well. When he looked up at Bob his eyes were red and wet. 

 

“I don’t know, but…” he paused. Sighed again. “I’m really worried about him, Bob.” Bob nodded. 

 

“Yeah, me too.” he groaned. 

 

“I know it’s stupid,” Seán started, shaking his head. “but I won’t feel better until he’s out of the hospital and back here, at his house.” 

 

“It’s not stupid,” Bob responded earnestly, hand coming to rest on Seán’s shoulder. 

 

They stayed like that for a little while. Time spent while they waited for Mark to come home.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Thursday March 31, 9:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

Mark was sick and tired of his room. He was sick and tired of not being fully healed or recovered. Though the doctor’s said he was getting there, and that he should be optimistic because it had only been a little under a month. But to Mark a month was way too long. he was getting more and more restless, and _anxious_. 

 

If Mrs. Sorben could get to him, and ‘Military’ could get to him, then in what way was he safe? To him safety was beginning to sound like an illusion. Though, the officer outside his door was supposed to calm him, it made him more nervous if anything. Knowing that someone was there, and Mark was fully available to him. It set his anxiety on fire. 

 

In addition, Detective Stevens’ words haunted him. If the chief of police had been a bad guy, who’s to say there weren’t other cops involved? Mark shuddered. He hadn’t asked, but now he was faced with the realization. The man with the blue eyes had a name. He’d had a job, and probably even a family of his own. 

 

Mark shuddered. _The chief of police_. Even though the detective had told him the man was dead, Mark still didn’t feel safe. What if the _others_ were angry at him for escaping? 

 

‘Military’ tried to kill him. What was going to stop anyone else? 

 

By this point, Mark knew that he was working himself into another attack. The curtains were still closed and it was completely dark in the room. Mark had wanted to close his door because he felt safer behind it; hidden. But now he felt trapped. He scratch unconsciously at his arms.

 

He wished he could fall asleep, but it was extremely hard in a plain room with little stimuli to protect his mind from his own thoughts. He turned on his back, but shot up immediately. His back burned viciously. He supposed his bandages came loose. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he ignored the pain as best he could to turn on his right side. 

His stomach growled at him, and he sighed. He shifted again, bit his lip to keep from crying out at the pain in his back, and groaned. He was thoroughly frustrated. The water in his eyes soon turned to tears.

 

He wanted to go home.

 

That night, in an uneasy sleep, Mark dreamt of Chica. Except Chica cried like a human girl, and she was covered in blood, a single bullet hole very neatly in the middle of her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is gonna get really bad for Mark's mental state, but it will get better, I swear.


	25. Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark is triggered, Ethan is worried, Carrie is frustrated, and the Fischbachs are doing the best they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, gods...let me first say that I know its been forever, I know and I'm so sorry! I moved into college a couple weeks ago, and before that I didn't have a laptop (because my previous one belonged to the school). I had everything I needed on a thumbdrive, but the laptop I had now was not compatible, so I needed to convert it to word. I finalllly asked my roommate to borrow her laptop so I can do that, so please don't think I've abandoned this story, I literally couldn't work on it. Again, I'm so sorry, and I really hope this chapter is good enough to hook everybody again (as I'm sure no one cares after this much time...)  
> You guys are incredible, putting up with my bullshit <3

Friday April 1, 6:00 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

            Mark awoke to the gentle touch of Dr. Sauren. He jumped, heart monitor beeping faster for a moment, before his eyes adjusted. He looked around at the room, trying to control his breathing. His hands were shaking hard, and bit his tongue to regroup himself. _Oh. Hospital, right._ Most of his mornings began like this. In his head, upon just waking up, he was still with the blue-eyed man. Still in danger.

 

            The moment his eyes landed on the doctor, he calmed, letting out an exaggerated breath. He gave him a shaky smile, blinking blearily. He grumbled as he shifted, half between being bitter for being woken up, and grateful that he was saved from his nightmare. But as he shifted he felt the wet material under him.

 

            Eyes widening, and cheeks flushing, Mark sent a panicked look to Dr. Sauren. Dr. Sauren gave him a sympathetic smile, but Mark’s eyes were beginning to water. Shame flung itself at the walls of his consciousness.

 

            Mark gingerly lifted the blanket draping him, and then wrinkled his nose. The smell wasn’t as subtle as Mark had been hoping. The tears spilled over his cheeks, and he couldn’t look the doctor in the eye.

 

            “I—” The silence was oppressive. “I don’t—”

 

            “Mark,” the doctor interrupted him. Mark flinched, then bit back a sob, his body trembling. “It’s okay.” Mark’s eyes flitted up to the doctor, unsure. He sniffled.

 

            “But, I—”

 

            “Mark,” the doctor repeated, tone serious, but comforting. “This happens all the time.”  Mark didn’t respond. The words took off some of the embarrassment, but he was still mortified. He couldn’t believe that it had happened to him. He was a grown man.

 

            He couldn’t believe he’d pissed himself.

 

            His cheeks burned even deeper red, if possible. “Dr. Sauren?” his voice was barely audible. The doctor looked attentively at him. “I…I need…” He couldn’t ask for anything. He couldn’t make himself. It was just clothes, but he couldn’t ask for anything after… _that_. But the doctor seemed to understand.

 

            “I’ll get you a change of clothes and you can clean up in the bathroom.” he said kindly. “Afterwards, though,” he added. “I will have to fix your bandages, as they seem to have come undone.”

 

            Mark was helped from his bed by Dr. Sauren, and walked — with a slight limp — to the bathroom with a fresh set of clothes. He changed gingerly, and came back to a clean set of bedsheets. He nodded gratefully at the doctor who was patiently waiting to change his bandages.

 

            The doctor tutted.

 

            “Mark,” he said softly. “have you been tossing in your sleep?” Mark nodded and said nothing.

 

            “Sorry,” he muttered after a moment. Dr. Sauren finished with his bandages and smiled at him.

 

            “Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “just curious as to how they came loose.”  Just as the doctor turned to leave, Mark called for him to wait.

 

            The doctor waited.

 

            Mark tried for a good long minute to find the words. Once he found them, he struggled to let them escape his lips. He was bright red.

 

            “Don’t—” he started, voice ashamed. “Don’t tell the others…please?” But Mark’s worries were unfounded. Dr. Sauren smiled warmly at him and nodded.

 

            “Never.” he said, then added “Doctor-patient confidentiality.” and left with a wink. After that Mark was left to his own devices. It was still fairly early, and Mark was sure everyone would still be asleep. He knew his moms, his brother, Amy, and Felix were still at the hospital. He’d heard from the doctor that they were _all_ — somehow — sleeping in the waiting room, and that no nurses had had the heart to tell them to leave.

 

            Mark assumed his moms weren’t in his room because of Dr. Sauren. He must have told them how Mark had been waking up, and that people in the room were not the best option for him.

 

            Mark hated that he agreed.

 

            The solitude was both relaxing and heartbreaking. Mark was starting to _miss_ being around people. Hanging out with his friends, meeting with his fans—

 

            Mark cringed at the thought, and his chest tightened. _Don’t go there_ , he thought desperately, working to get his breathing under control. _Don’t go there_. He _should_ be meeting with the therapist that the hospital assigned him. He should be listening to Dr. Sauren and his advice. But Mark couldn’t stand the thought of talking about it. He couldn’t even think about it without having an attack. So he’d been vehemently refusing since it’d been mentioned.

 

            Mark glanced over at his phone, sitting on the table beside him. He hadn’t been able to touch it since Ethan had dropped it off a week ago. The idea of social media scared him. People _knew_ , there was no doubt that his predicament was everywhere. He had been a popular dude, and he was sure that everywhere on the internet was the livestream and video. No doubt it had been talked about, copied, shared, linked, and saved. He’d been so afraid to open tumblr or youtube and see something he never wanted to. Be reminded of all that he’d lost.

 

            He huffed, pouting as he looked at it. He didn’t want to hide from his everyday life (or rather, what _was_ his everyday life) just because of ten days of his life. Mark didn’t want to be unable to do the things he used to be able to. He reached for the phone with shaking hands. _You’re fine_ , he told himself. _You can do this, you’re fine._

 

            He picked it up, and opened it. He let out a breath. It was fine. He could do this.

 

            He wasn’t going to be bound by some fuckers who tried to ruin his life.

 

            Mark had several messages from his family, friends, and girlfriend. Everyone must have left a thousand notifications on his phone each. _Damn_ , he thought, eyes wide. He shouldn’t open the messages. He knew exactly what would greet him. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Mark, you never called me back.’ ‘Mark, where are you?’ ‘Are you there?’ ‘Mark, tell me it’s a joke.’ ‘Mark are you okay?’

 

            His hand hovered over the delete button. He had to delete them without looking at them. He hit it fast, trying not to let his curiosity get the best of him. He sighed, finger hovering over the twitter button. He couldn’t. Not now. What would he even say? _Hey, I’m back from my week-long traumatic vacation. Hey, I’m back from being brutalized and utterly destroyed._ Mark shuddered.

 

            He just wasn’t there yet.

 

            Mark wondered for a minute what he _could_ do on his phone if everyone he would call was with him, and social media was a _hell no_ zone. He could play a game? Or he could check his email.

 

            Pulling up his email, he scrolled through the messages lazily, grateful for the distraction. He had been terrified that his phone would be abuzz with the horror he had faced. It was relieving to be able to touch it without having another panic attack.

 

            His phone dinged slightly as another email appeared before him. Without thinking about it, he clicked. It wasn’t until he opened the video file that his calm shattered.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Friday April 1, 6:30 AM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

            The worry that pulsed through Ethan almost made him nauseous as everyone — _everyone_ — rushed towards Mark’s hospital room. Mark’s moms and Tom had all gotten calls from the hospital and the police station saying to rush over. After Mark had flatlined the first time, Ethan had been so tense, but it had settled. Now fear pulsed through him, terrified he would find his best friend dead in his room. Or police tape, or _something_.

 

            His hands clenched into fists, pushing his fingernails into his palms. It helped ground him, as their mini parade of worry marched through the hospital. Not all of them fit into the elevator, and after a moment of Felix cursing and thrusting his finger haphazardly into the button of the other one, they began running up the stairs. Ethan was both annoyed at the delay, and grateful for not being squished with the three grieving Fischbachs. The space was comforting, and kept the panic at bay as he sucked in lungfuls of air between each step. Wade, Tyler, Ken, Felix, Marzia, Ryan, Matt, and Aaron were with him, the rest just barely squeezing into the steel elevator.

 

            They reached the room just as the rest did. Ethan’s hands began to shake. Mark’s door was closed, and the guard was nowhere to be seen. The doctor wasn’t there either, and for a moment, save for their heavy breathing, it was eerily silent in the hallway.

 

            One of Mark’s moms (was her name Dee?) turned the knob, face already red and blotchy from crying. Mark’s other mother (was her name June?) held tightly to Dee’s hand, also red from crying.

 

            Ethan brought a knuckle up to his mouth and bit at it. Anxiety pooled in his stomach as the door crept open. Did he want to see? Would it be something he would always see? Would it be something that kept him up for the rest of his life? Unlatching his teeth, he began to press his hands together to keep them from shaking.

 

            He was expecting to see blood. He was expecting to see eyes void of their unusual light and kindness. He was expecting to see pale skin, and blue lips.

 

            He was not expecting to see one of his best friends curled up on his hospital bed, literally sobbing, while a doctor, a cop, and a detective tried to placate him. His eyes roamed over the room in confusion for a moment. Mark’s phone was on the floor, a small crack formed in the corner where it must have dropped.

 

            Detective Stevens was trying to get his attention on her, but it was clear Mark was somewhere else. She took a cautious step forward, and Ethan didn’t miss the look the doctor shot her.

 

            What was going on?

 

            Gently, the detective laid her hand on his shoulder. Mark sucked in a breath, every muscle tensing, and then he lashed out at her. He punched her right in the jaw. Hard.

 

            Ethan jumped back, jaw wide in shock.

 

            “Mark?” June called out, voice soft. Mark’s movement stuttered, but he didn’t stop. The detective was firmer now, trying to get him under control, but Mark’s arms began to flail. Hitting her wherever he could. He made sounds that were crosses between screams and harsh growls. At some point he bit her.

 

            Doctor Sauren had taken three big steps backwards, and the cop hesitated before going to help hold Mark down. Mark fought them as they held his arms to the bed. His face was wet and red, and his veins bulged as he struggled. Ethan felt tears pricking at his eyes. Mark looked terrifying.

 

            Tom went to take a step forward, but his mothers each put a hand on his arms, stopping him. They were crying, and they shook their heads. Everything else in the room was still. Ethan didn’t think he could move if he wanted to.

 

            Finally, after struggling to hold Mark down, Detective Stevens yelled at the doctor.

 

            “Restraints!” she growled at him. He didn’t pause as he left the room, returning a minute later with thick leather bands laced with cotton. Ethan wanted to step in and stop him as he strapped Mark’s wrists to the bed, pulling at them to tighten them. Ethan’s heart squeezed as Mark’s sobbing picked up.

 

            “ _Stop!_ ” his friend cried as he pulled at the restraints. “ _No, please!_ ” Sickness spread in Ethan’s belly as the tears rolled over his cheeks.

 

            “Y-you can’t leave him like that!” Tom yelled, hands tightly squeezing his mothers’. Detective Stevens and the young cop took a step back. Stevens already had a bruise forming under her eye, and there were clear bite marks on her arm. Ethan winced.

 

            “It for his sake, as much as everyone else,” she said solemnly. “He could really hurt himself right now.” Tom said nothing, but stared hatefully at her. “I’m sorry.” she added.

 

            “Thank you,” June surprised everyone with the firmness of her voice. “Detective, thank you.” Stevens clearly looked taken aback. “For helping us. Him.” June clarified. “I’m sorry for what just happened.” she said, gesturing to the bruises and bites. Stevens actually managed a tight smile.

 

            “Part of the job.”

 

            Mark wasn’t screaming anymore, and he wasn’t pulling at the restraints. But he was still sobbing, eyes shut tight. Ethan could see the anxiety on his face, and his whole chest ached.

 

 

            While everyone was focused on Mark, Ethan leaned down and snagged his phone from the floor. Ethan’s fingers roamed over the screen, skirting past the cracked parts, opening it and clicking over whatever it was that caused _that_.  It was an email. ‘Happy April Fools Day, Mark’ it read. ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’ It didn’t seem all that bad. A message from an old friend, maybe. There was a file attached to it, which Ethan clicked on. A video file began to play.

 

            Immediately the room was filled with the sound of strained grunts, quiet screams, and the sound of metal to skin. Ethan watched, horrified for a moment as Mark was beaten with a metal bat.

 

            “How’s about we see how much damage we can do before he passes out.” One of the distorted voices came from the phone’s speaker, loud and clear, filling the whole room.

 

            “Whatever,” another voice said coldly. “I just want to see what else we can do to him before he becomes catatonic.”

 

            “You always want it over too quickly,” the other said.

 

            The words clung to Ethan’s brain.

 

            People were cruel.

 

            The current Mark whimpered from his place on the bed, twitching, but otherwise did nothing.

 

            More tears ran down his face, as he watched Video Mark struggle for breath. He looked up with wide terrified eyes. Detective Stevens was already trying to take the phone from him. Ethan looked around to see everyone was staring intently at him. He curled a little, dropping the phone into the detective’s hand.

 

            It was… Ethan made it two steps out the door before he was vomiting. The message on the email haunted him. _I can’t wait to see you again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark is no fool, but he is traumatized as fuck...


	26. Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark needs to know, James can't readjust, and Felix is worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyy~ Another chapter, yaaaay~ and it didn't take me thirteen years this time, so that's good!
> 
> Anyways, hope ye enjoy :)

Friday April 1, 2:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

            Carrie sighed heavily as she sat at her kitchen table, slouching dejectedly over her steaming coffee.

 

            Maybe, _maybe_ it was one of Marster’s cronies but…something just didn’t sit right with her. But Marster was dead. She herself had killed him, and there was no way he survived a direct shot between the eyes. She watched the coroners carry him off.

 

            The culprit who had sent the video to Mr. Fischbach had to have been one of the people who had worked for him, who had been torturing Mark for him. But Carrie couldn’t shake the feeling that it just... _wasn’t_.

 

            Frustrated and confused, Carrie made her way into the living room, hoping that her and Alex can curl up with a movie or something. She was not expecting to see her husband, stubble overgrown, eyes tired, sitting on the couch lifelessly watching a rerun of a shit movie.

 

            He was supposed to be at work.

 

            “James,” she muttered, and he jumped, turning with fast and panicky motions. James relaxed when he set his eyes on her, but Carrie felt her stomach do a little flip. He had said he was fine, but Carrie hadn’t paid enough attention to make sure he wasn’t lying.

 

            It’s been weeks, and she’d been so caught up in work that she hadn’t even noticed her husband’s trauma. Sudden tears gathering in her eyes, Carrie carefully sat next to him, putting her head on his chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady, and Carrie was grateful he had been able to calm down so quickly. That was usually a good sign among trauma patients.

 

            “Hey,” he said, and his voice was rough. Carrie worked hard to keep the tears back for James’ sake.

 

            “I thought you were going to work?” she said gently. He sighed, closing his eyes.

            “I want to…” he started, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t, Carrie, I tried, and there was this guy…” he trailed off, voice trembling with the coming of tears. Carrie ran her hands through his hair gently.

 

            “It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you tell me.”

 

            “A bar fight broke out, and this guy got punched in the face…I was…it wasn’t a big deal, but when I saw the blood, I…” Carrie reached up to his face to wipe off the tears. He paused for a moment, collecting himself. “I had to come back home, I couldn’t do it.”

 

            “It’s alright,” she murmured gently. “There’s no rush.” She paused, giving him a brief glance, before laying her head back on his chest. “Maybe we can see about that doctor we were looking into.” James nodded numbly, wrapping his arms around her and curling into her, laying his head on her shoulder.

 

            “Thank you,” his voice shook, and Carrie wasn’t exactly sure what he was thanking her for.

 

 

 

Friday April 1, 4:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

            Mark couldn’t wrap his head around the day’s events. He’d pissed himself in his sleep, he’d been restrained and heavily sedated, and he’d had a panic attack, in which he’d apparently beat the shit out of the detective who’d pretty much saved his life. He’d woken up twenty minutes ago, and the doctor had been standing there waiting to inform him of what had happened.

 

            Mark hated the thought of hurting people. Dr. Sauren hadn’t given him any details, all he’d said was that Mark had attacked the detective assigned to his case. But _attacked_ was such an awful word. He had attacked someone? And he was still processing that he had smashed his phone. How had that happened?

 

            He couldn’t remember, and no one would tell him. But he could already feel the anxiety coiling in the pit of his stomach. It had to be something bad for him to have hurt someone. And ruined his phone.

 

            Traumatic enough that he couldn’t remember.

 

            Some part of Mark knew that there was a reason he didn’t remember and maybe it was best left that way, but another part of him needed to know. What had triggered him like that? He needed to know why he became violent.

 

            He knew the answer was in whatever was on his phone. He must have been looking at something, right? Was it the livestream?

 

            Mark shuddered, not really wanting to know what he had looked like, bloodied, beaten, terrified. He already knew what it had felt like, it would be salt on the wounds to know what he had looked like too.

 

            But he was damned resolved to figure out what had triggered him. He had to know.

 

            His phone sat, half shattered on his little stand by the hospital bed. He cringed at the damage. Had he chucked it? He tentatively reached for it. Unlike the last time, now he was ready. He was determined not to freak out, or go into _whatever the hell_ that last episode thing was.

 

            He carefully brushed his fingers over the broken screen, careful not to cut himself, and clicked on—it was just an _email_?

 

            What could possibly be contained on the email that would send him into what was far past a panic attack? Unless it had come from the man with the blue eyes himself…

 

 _Oh._ For a second, Mark’s mind was numb, uncomprehending. And then realization dawned on him. **_Oh._** Mark fought to control his breath as his eyes adjusted to the cracked screen.

 

‘Happy April Fool’s Day, Mark’ he read. Though it should not have, it made goosebumps rise on Mark’s skin. He didn’t recognize the sender. ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’ Mark’s breathing was getting a little fast, and tears were slipping from his eyes, but he kept his calm as much as he could. He wasn’t going to lose it. He wasn’t.

 

Mark’s hands were shaking so hard, the phone was moving too much for him to properly see the screen anymore. He dropped it onto the bed, and with a trembling finger, clicked on the video file.

 

Mark choked on his next breath as the sounds of himself getting the shit beat out of him filled his ears. They seemed like they were in his head, rather than from the phone. It was when he was in the other room. The smaller one with the loud door. _Where the twins were—_

 

Every breath that Mark took in wasn’t enough. He wasn’t getting enough air. He was getting lightheaded, and his stomach was in all kinds of knots. He could vaguely hear ‘Military’ talking with another man. He remembered them, both of them. He remembered the bat they were using. He remembered the room, and the blood, and the fear, and the pain, and the wish for it to end.

 

Mark was trying really hard to calm down. He didn’t want to go back into that space in his head where he got violent, he didn’t want to wake up and hear about something he had no recollection of.

 

 _Calm down, Mark,_ he told himself. _Calm down, it’s fine, everything is fine. You’re safe now_. But no matter what he tried to tell himself, his mind kept coming up with one counter-argument.

 

_He’s still alive. And he’s **after** me._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday April 1, 10:00 PM

Los Angeles, California

 

 

            Felix was more than upset. He just couldn’t figure out if he was sad upset, terrified upset, or fucking pissed. Someone was still tormenting Mark. Even after their boss took one through the eyes. What did it take to make this stop? Felix tugged at the greasy strands of his hair.

 

            He knew he needed a shower, and a hell of a lot of sleep, but that wasn’t coming lately. He hadn’t really been able to sleep properly since the mother of the twins had attacked Mark. Technically he hadn’t been able to sleep properly since Mark was taken, but it had escalated since Mrs. Sorben.

 

            He got up as quietly as he could, knowing Marzia was asleep next to him. Carefully untangling her arm from his shoulders, and her legs from his, he stood, stretching. Stepping carefully over his friends on the floor, he started for the bathroom, but paused, deciding against it.

 

            Heading out for the door instead, he decided to take a walk along Mark’s street. He needed the air anyway. But as he opened the door, there was a neat little typed note taped to the door.

 

            “Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean we’ll stop.” Felix’s heart pounded hard once in his chest, then stuttered. He barely caught himself from slamming the door, as he turned swiftly to find Jack. As he was about to open the guest room door, he noticed another neatly typed note.

 

“You think you’re gonna save him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never a dull moment. Who do you guys think is gonna go after him this time? Do you think Military will keep going after him? Or do you think somebody else will take a swing? (heh, get it? Swing? Because he was beaten with a bat? No~? Okay I'll leave...)

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, chapters might start out a little short, but as I go on, and get a feel for what I'm writing they might get longer.


End file.
